


old bones, familiar skeleton

by Hermia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Time Travel, bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-15 03:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermia/pseuds/Hermia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a twist of the knife. Not only has the South American pack left Stiles gutted, but sending him back seventeen years is a master stroke. Without Derek's mate to pick up the pieces, the pack is lost and without a leader. They'll fall one after the other. And after two years of living without him, once he sees Derek again, will Stiles be willing to go back at all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**2027.**

“It's just one thing after another.”

Stiles exhaled a laugh and scrubbed his hands over his face, the stubble on his jaw scratching at the leather of his gloves. “So we're talking... how big? A dozen? Two?” Danny's brows rose on his forehead, just as Stiles' heart sunk to his feet. “Shit.”

“I did some research,” Danny continued, his own hands rubbing together to conjure up a bit of warmth. The wind was picking up. They were too old to believe in portents anymore, but that didn't take the chill out of the air. “Evidently these guys are _really_ powerful. The pack's old. Like... I'm talking centuries. And I read a few things about witches.”

“Great. An army of all-powerful werewolves with pet witches.” Stiles sighed, boot toeing at the leaves beneath his feet. “Got any bad news?”

Danny grinned despite himself, carving dimples like craters into his face. “You really wanna know?”

“Just... keep an eye on them, and don't do it alone. If they look like they're making a move on us, call me. Immediately.”

“I'll drop in later to give Derek the news.”

Stiles waved him off as he took a step back. “I'll let him down easy. You can't just drop this kind of thing on him and expect it to go well. Keep in touch.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and turned towards the path that cut directly through the Beacon Hills preserve.

Seventeen years. He'd been driving and riding and walking this path for seventeen years. He could find his way up to the Hale house blindfolded. In his sleep. The mindless trip gave him just under fifteen minutes to clear his head. In that time, he had to figure out how to tell Derek about the pack encroaching on his territory. He had to figure out how to tell him to bide his time, how to tell him they were ten times more dangerous than anything they'd faced. He wasn't relishing the job.

Though the fact that he knew about all of this before Derek did gave him some small rush of pride.

Even that didn't distract him from the bad feeling in his guts. There was only so much you could ignore, and a sharp icy pain in your gut was far above his natural threshold of avoidance. Derek's pack was larger now than it ever had been, even when the entire Hale family was alive, but did they have enough to come out of this conflict alive? He wasn't sold.

Breathing out slowly as he took the few steps that led up to the house's front porch, Stiles slipped his hands out of his jacket and opened the front door. The lingering scent of cinnamon and apple as well as a blown out candle hit him the moment he stepped inside, and he rubbed at the upturned tip of his nose as he turned to lock the door behind him.

Erica and her damn candles.

Stiles took the stairs to the second floor without bothering to look around. The great thing about living with a group of wolves was security. If something was wrong, you'd know within a second. The house would've already been a mess; he would have smelled blood, not the cloying, artificial scent of apple pie.

Shrugging his jacket off once he was inside the master bedroom, he shot Derek a half-smile before tossing it over the chair beside the door.

“We've got ourselves a _problem_.”

Derek let out a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he dropped his hand back to his side, he began walking toward him.

“What is it this time?” he asked, rubbing his rough hands over Stiles' biceps, chest pressed to his back. “If it's another pack, it might be a blessing. Everyone's getting restless, including me.”

Stiles' face scrunched up before falling, and he shook his head. “Not really a blessing, no. But another pack, yes.” Leaning back against Derek, he licked his lips and began removing his gloves. He dropped them right on top of his jacket. It was evident in his slow speech that he was biding his time, barely hugging the line between revealing the truth as gently as possible and avoiding a topic completely. “It's big. Organized. Danny says they're... South American?”

The werewolf made a quiet noise, nose fitting behind Stiles' ear as he mulled over the information. “We're more powerful than I thought if we're getting the attention of the _Nagual_.” His arms wrapped around Stiles' waist, hands rubbing over the soft fabric of his t-shirt. “Was bound to happen eventually.”

“You weren't gonna let me in on the fact that we were pissing off werewolves with witches, were you? I mean, this is kind of important information.” Stiles sighed, his fingers curling around Derek's hands. “We should've just stayed small. I get that it's a power thing, but if it kept us from attracting this kind of attention, I wouldn't mind having a wimp for an Alpha.”

Derek let out a huff of laughter, moving away from him with a parting pat on his stomach. “I might believe that if I hadn't seen you in action,” he replied with a grin, crossing his arms over his chest, a thick brow arching. “If _I_ hadn't pushed to defend ourselves instead of rolling over and submitting, _you_ would have.”

Stiles turned around to face him, bridging the new gap between them until his hands were laced at Derek's back. “Hey, _wishful_ thinking. I like having all of my limbs. You can't blame me.”

“You'll be fine,” Derek murmured with a small smile curling one corner of his mouth. “You have seventeen werewolves who'd die for you, and they have _you_ to make sure they won't.” He moved in closer, a hand slipping under the hem of Stiles' shirt, fingertips skating across the base of his spine.

“They're just another pack, underestimating us because of what happened to my family. Because I have a human for a mate.” The werewolf kissed his upper lip briefly. “We'll kill them just like we've killed anyone else who threatens us.”

Stiles inhaled, his chest rising until he felt it brush Derek's, and released it through his nose. Slowly, wringing himself free of the clouded air in his lungs until he was forced to take another cleansing breath. “Alright,” he said. “You're right. We've got this.” Pausing, his brows flattened over his eyes. “And you took that so much better than I thought you would. It's kinda hot, actually.”

“My machismo's out in the back yard with Erica's daughter.” Even as he spoke, casual as anything, Derek was pulling Stiles' shirt over his head, lips finding his collarbone quickly. “Still,” he continued, words skimming over pale skin, “we shouldn't wait for them to come to us.” His mouth traveled upward, seeking the thrumming pulse as he always did.

Derek's tongue passed over the flesh. “We have the element of surprise. It's time to take advantage of it.”

Stiles' fingers curled under the hem of Derek's shirt, lingering there for a long moment before returning the favor. He tossed the garment aside and wrapped his arms around his middle. His eyes fell shut when he felt Derek's lips at his throat again, replaced just as quickly as he'd been pulled away. Their movements had long since grown together. If one of them bent in one direction, the other bent to meet him. They just _knew_ where to move, where to touch, where to kiss in order to pour as much into any given time. And that worked for them.

Letting out a quiet _mm_ under his breath, Stiles' fingertips pressed against the warm flesh of Derek's back. “Did I say kind of hot? I meant really hot.”

“You're _no_ help when you're horny,” Derek muttered with a chuckle as he pulled Stiles' belt from his jeans, dropping it to the wooden floor with a _thunk_. It didn't take long for the human's jeans to be pooled around his ankles as well. “You'd think after all this time, you would've learned how to multi-task.”

“I know how to multi-task.” Stiles' thumb pressed against the button of Derek's jeans before running over the tender flesh above it. “Just not that kind of multi-task.”

Taking a step back and blinking to clear his head, Stiles sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his jeans. He began working on the laces of his boots, eyes trained on the floor instead of on Derek. “So we hit them as soon as possible. We call a family meeting tomorrow, tell them to meet here. Figure out what we're gonna do then.” Pulling off one boot with a grunt, he dropped it next to Derek's shirt. Once that was settled, he looked up at Derek with a hint of a grin. “Until then, we can't really do anything. No help when I'm horny, my _ass_.”

Derek grinned right back as he was tugging off his own boots. “See? Now I can focus on getting you off.”

Once both boots were off along with his jeans and socks, the werewolf knelt between Stiles' legs, planting wet kisses along the soft contours of his abdominal muscles. “Think we should call Jackson out?” His fingers curled under the hem of his boyfriend's underwear, tugging them down around his thighs.

The heat of Derek's mouth enveloped Stiles' cock before he could even get an answer out, broad strokes of an eager tongue rolling his member against the roof of Derek's mouth. He made a low noise, sucking even harder as the taste of his lover sparked immediate muscle memory.

Stiles' hands slid into Derek's hair, but instead of guiding him away to focus, he shifted forward, closer to the edge of the bed. “Nnh, _you_ – you can't ask questions and then do that,” he muttered, chin tilting upwards as his head fell back. If there was one sensation he'd never get used to, it was the wet, hot inside of Derek's mouth. “Yeah. Yeah, we'll call Ja-ackson – _fuck_ , that's good.”

There was another noise, louder this time, partial acknowledgment, but mostly a reaction to the feeling of Stiles' cock hardening in his mouth. Derek worked forward, bobbing his head further and further along until he could comfortably press his nose to Stiles' stomach, cheeks caving in as he pulled back.

When their eyes met, Derek's flashed red, shutting soon after as he closed his large hand around his own cock, pumping it languidly in his boxer briefs.

Stiles sighed another curse, his fingers tightening in Derek's hair for only a moment before he let go, hands planting on the sides of his face instead. “C'mon,” he said, voice tight in the struggle to keep from moaning. Once the slurred word was out of his mouth, he failed to keep quiet any longer, the heat spreading over the inside of his thighs and up into his stomach prompting a groan through gritted teeth. Stiles swallowed hard, moving to grip at Derek's shoulders instead of his face, squeezing just hard enough to get his attention. “Mm _god,_ get up here.”

Derek kept sucking for a moment longer, only letting up when he was rewarded by a noise born more of frustration than arousal from the other man. Once satisfied, he stood watching as Stiles wriggled his way back until he was sitting up against their pillow collection that had only grown over the years.

Stiles was still kicking off his own underwear by the time Derek climbed onto his lap, half hard, body already feeling superheated. He scooted forward until their cocks met, rubbing against each other and along abdomens, causing Derek to bite his lip through a moan.

Leaning off to the side, he grabbed hold of a pale blue bottle, pouring some in his own hand before passing it over to Stiles. Rising up on his knees, Derek reached behind him, grabbing hold of Stiles' cock and stroking it, coating his length in the silky liquid.

Pouring some of the lube onto his fingers, Stiles watched Derek as he rubbed them together, his other hand shutting the bottle and reaching over to set it on the bedside table. He sat up, drawing himself close and closer to the man straddling him. His lips pressed against his chest as his hand slipped around, index teasing the ring of muscle for only a moment before pressing inwards.

His mouth moved up to Derek's shoulder as he began pumping his finger in and out, slow as anything. There was no need to murmur for Derek to relax. He was already relaxed, and it wouldn't take long for him to be ready. Stiles just liked making sure.

“Missed you today,” Stiles said, his voice only growing threadier when he felt Derek's hand grip him tighter, when he felt Derek's wrist twist. “ _Hn_ , yeeah. Definitely missed you.”

The kiss that Derek gave him was tender, laced with a smile despite the huskiness of his voice. “Have to keep the kids in shape,” he murmured, bumping his forehead against Stiles'. “Mmnn, forgot what it feels like not to get something right when we wake up. Move your hand.”

Stiles did.

Derek shifted forward until he could position himself over Stiles' length, holding it steady at the base as he pressed down on it. His body was so used to the sensation now, he barely tensed, easing himself down to the root within moments and wasting no time. The feeling of being filled was more than enough to make Derek's hips move before he even had time for what little acclimation his body might've needed, nails digging into the flesh over Stiles' ribs as his hips lifted, rolled forward, down, back, and up again in a slow, fluid movement.

When he moved, Stiles gasped. And when he felt Derek's nails – his blunt, human nails – digging into his skin, he groaned a second time, his own hands settling on his thighs. Even strong as he was now, he couldn't quite lift Derek up from the bed in order to rock his hips, so he focused on moving with him, on digging his heels into the mattress and pressing upwards when Derek moved away. Anything to keep him close.

Until Stiles was ready to switch positions.

Giving Derek a pat on his ass, Stiles jerked his head to the side.

Derek could feel when the man beneath him grew restless and was more than willing to shift over onto his back, even if it meant grasping him and struggling to maneuver the both of them to keep Stiles inside.

Once it was Stiles' turn to bury himself deeper, he pressed his face into the curve of Derek's neck, hands planted beside his shoulders. Kissing, licking, sucking clumsily on the skin, Stiles rocked upwards. His breath hitched as Derek's hips thrust back against his. “Shit.” He licked his lips, tongue passing along Derek's throat again, though this time it was an accident. “Tell me what you want.”

“ _You_.”

The reply was soft and grated against Derek's throat, like it was a struggle to speak, to make any human noise with Stiles pressing further in. He knew it wasn't enough, that it wasn't what he needed to say, not even what he meant. There was a slew of things he wanted right then, but he could only come up with one word, an automatic reaction to the one thing he craved more than the survival – of himself and of his pack.

“God, Stiles,” Derek continued, nails clawing down the length of his back. “Fuck me. _Fuck me_.” His body tightened, from the jumping muscles of his stomach to the thick cords of his thighs as he lifted his legs to wrap around his lover's waist, lifting his hips off the bed entirely. “Nnh, I want-- I want you to come-- come in me and, and _on me_.”

There was a sharp slap of flesh-against-flesh. “Oh- _oh, fuck_ , like that,” the werewolf moaned. “Don't. Stop.”

So he didn't.

Stiles didn't stop thrusting his hips forward; he only moved with more steady strokes. Not faster or even harder, but decisive. He didn't draw out of him only to sheathe himself fully inside of him again. He stayed inside, kept close, panting against Derek's shoulder as his body crowded the man beneath him. A hand left the mattress for just long enough to pull Derek up higher on his thighs, deepening the curve of his back and pressing his shoulders harder into the bed.

He came only a few minutes later, his mouth pressed to Derek's skin to smother his own voice, the one that threatened to raise in a shout. Muscles jerked. The fingers of one hand twisted and pulled at the sheets. And he pulled himself out of Derek with the other, his come falling in thick strings over the bottom of his stomach.

Knowing Derek's orgasm was still a while away, Stiles pulled himself up onto his knees and passed his fingers through his own come. Some of it was lost in the dark curls of his pubic hair, but there was enough left to slick him down when coupled with Derek's precome. “ _Fuck_ , you're so good,” he muttered as he began to stroke him. Derek's hips kept moving; it was as if he'd never stopped fucking him. “Yeah, that's it. That's _perfect_.”

Derek's response was a mere whimper.

He bucked and writhed, keeping his legs locked tight around Stiles' waist, rubbing his ass against his boyfriend's softening cock if only to keep the illusion of it still being inside him. Not that he needed it. With Stiles' practiced hand and the sensation of his come deep inside, as well as seeping into his skin, Derek came several minutes later, panting and sweating despite the chill of the house.

Without hesitation, Derek grabbed at Stiles' arms, one and then the other, tugging him down until their mouths met. “Mm,” he murmured against soft lips. “Almost worth having to ditch you this morning.”

“Nothing's worth having to ditch me,” Stiles said, his voice barely above a whisper. Pressing his nose against the bridge of Derek's, he let go of a breath that sounded more like a sigh. “This bed gets fucking _cold_ without you in it. No more ditching. Gotta wake up early tomorrow anyway.”

Derek grunted in agreement, manhandling his boyfriend until he was the one on his back with Derek laying over him. He didn't want to bother with the covers.

“I'll get Boyd and Erica to handle combat training.” He wrapped his arms around Stiles' neck, forehead pressed against one another's. “But we're going to have to step it up. For everyone. Even us.” Derek chuckled. “Watching you run circuits again is going to be fun.”

Stiles groaned, but there was a smile on his mouth all the same. “Why can't I just be in charge of the guns? I'm good at guns. You guys leave me in the dust anyway.”

“Because if we let you get out in front, there wouldn't be anything left for us.” Sighing through his nose, Derek lifted himself half off of Stiles, taking a moment to crack his neck and roll his shoulders before settling back down. “How's our supply of wolfsbane?”

“We've got enough to wipe them all out.” Stiles went slack, his entire body relaxing. “If they stand still. And don't find some way to get them out, which they will. We need more, or we need to find more efficient ways to slow them down.” Passing his tongue over his lips, his arms curled around Derek's waist. The feeling in his stomach was back. The cold was a massive difference from the warm body pressing down on top of him. “Boyd can handle the sword. I'll start taking Danny out with me in case he's rusty. We should find somewhere safe to keep the kids.”

Derek's nostrils flared. “You're worried.” Two thick brows met over his nose, lines of age and stress creasing his face. “You haven't been worried enough for me to _feel_ it since you became my mate. What is it?” One of his hands cupped Stiles' cheek, thumb stroking just under his eye. “They can't hurt us.”

“Derek...” Stiles shook his head, hands pressing against the small of his back. “You know they can. Let's _not_ try to make light of a situation with the guy who's been to hell and back with you, alright?”

“I'm not an idiot, Stiles.” Derek pulled back, hazel eyes meeting the honey-brown beneath him. “I know they're dangerous. I know we might lose people. But it's the fact that you've been through hell with me that makes me believe what I've said.” Flipping his hand, he stroked Stiles' cheek with the back of his index finger. “I lost everything. I never thought I'd have this. Someone like you, a pack larger than even my family's. Kids running around again. This house is _alive_ again.”

Leaning down, he kissed the skin between Stiles' eyebrows, murmuring against it. “I'm not letting that go, and neither are you. That's why they can't hurt us.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said with a sigh. His throat was dry. Even Derek's placating words didn't ease the chill in his gut. But he nodded and he shut his eyes and he breathed slowly, trying to at least ease whatever tension was left in his body.

“Yeah, you're right. Plus, we've got more to fight for than they do.”

Derek wasn't fooled, but he knew better than to press, instead moving on to kissing over the man's cheek, jaw, and neck, rubbing his hands up and down his strong arms. “I _won't_ let them take this from me,” he said in a soft voice despite the heated intent behind them. “They'll expect to just mow over us. We're a young pack. My name doesn't carry weight anymore, and even if it did, a the _Naguals_ wouldn't care.”

Derek let himself slide down just enough to resting his greying temple on Stiles' shoulder. “You're what holds the pack together. _Me_ together. I'll fight for you until I can't anymore.”

When Stiles chuckled, the sound was wet. There was a voice inside his head, one that even Derek couldn't hear unless the words slipped. And this time they didn't.

_But what's holding me together?_

His chest rose and fell with another sigh, but he only held onto Derek tighter, turning to press a kiss to his forehead. “That kind of emotional manipulation should be outlawed in this house. It's not fair.” Thumb running over the warm skin of his back, Stiles kissed his forehead twice more before he let his head fall back against the pillows.

“One of these days, you're not gonna _have_ to fight for me anymore. S'gonna be a good day.”

“Yeah, it is.” Derek's smile was easy and adoring, crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Maybe we'll finally have the time to get married.”


	2. Chapter 2

Nothing invigorated Derek more than the feeling of a crushed trachea between his fangs.

The blood the gushed from a neck wound sent his wolf into a frenzy that no one else in his pack could match. He was the Alpha. He had sixteen other wolves at his command, feeding his power and bloodthirst.

This was the fourth _Nagual_ he had killed in the past fifteen minutes, but they were weak. Insubstantial. His wolf was satisfied with the kills, happy to chew at a throat down through the vertebrae, but Derek knew better. It wasn't enough. He had to find their leader – either a lieutenant that was sent or the female alpha herself.

They _both_ wanted to rip her apart, to devour her entrails and ensure she would never heal, never come back, but it was Derek who longed to see the alpha in agony for what she was trying to do.

But he was wounded. Enough darts and bullets laced with wolfsbane and even an alpha's healing shuts down.

There was no time to find his pack again, and even the siren's call of the anti-toxin in the depths of his mate's jacket. Derek had the chance to lead a good chunk of the _Naguals_ away, away from his family, to give them time to rest, recuperate and inevitably rescue him.

His wolf balked at the idea of being captured, but if his ego needed to take a hit to keep everyone safe, it was a small sacrifice. Both Jackson and Isaac were out of commission already, and most if not all of their younger recruits were suffering.

So Derek howled. It was a bellow, a cry of pain, one of desperation. One that his pack would try to follow.

Stiles would stop them. He knew Derek would never call for help, no matter how badly hurt, when it would bring every last enemy in their vicinity down on him

He ran on a twisted ankle, blood and flesh clinging to his thick, jet black fur. Their scent was familiar only in the sense that they were wolves. His family smelt of apples from scented candles, of dust and soil. They were earthen, they were solid.

This pack smelled of blood long before the battle began.

The old packs always did.

It took a little over a mile for his leg to finally give out. He didn't struggle against the fall or try to get away. The bipedal forms of less powerful werewolves surrounded him. Some had white fangs, others yellow, a few were missing a tooth here and there.

He made no noise as they kicked him, as claws dug into his fur, as a chunk of his ear was bitten off and spat back onto his snout. Derek focused on his rage. On his hatred for this pack, on how badly he longed to rip each and every one of them apart. There was only anger, he had to hold on to that, he had to keep--

There was a snap of bone, and then another.

This time, the howl was human.

And he was too far away to be heard.

Once a howl did reach Stiles' ears, it wasn't Derek's.

He knew the sound of Derek's howl. He knew what everyone in their pack sounded like, and this howl belonged to none of them. But the wolves that ran around the preserve had been howling all night; this one in particular was different in only one way.

That howl rang out through the woods, and the fighting stopped. The claws digging into his shoulder and all but nailing him to the tree withdrew. The grip crushing his wrist, rendering the hand holding his pistol useless, relaxed and let go. He dropped his weapon to the ground, and then he fell along with it, the thick forearm pressing him against the tree's trunk leaving him to fall the few inches he'd been suspended, down into the mess of leaves at his feet.

Stiles rooted around in the leaves to find his gun. Despite the fall jarring his ankle, once the fingers of his left hand found the pistol, he lifted it up in the direction the beta had run off into. The pain twisting through his shoulder and down to his elbow made keeping the gun level impossible. He was shaking too hard to aim. It wasn't even his dominant hand.

Spitting out a curse, he thumbed the safety on and jammed the pistol into his belt. He was barely up off of his knees when he heard someone running towards him.

“That was the Alpha,” Scott told him, breathless and limping himself, a hand already curling around Stiles' elbow as he came to a stop beside him. “Derek? Do you know where –” Stiles shot him a dire expression. “Right, yeah. I can find him. Just... follow, alright?”

Stiles followed.

Every step hurt, no matter the adrenaline thrumming through his limbs. Each burst of energy was tempered with worry. This pack was stronger than they expected. Smarter. He'd gotten cornered early on and barely managed to take two of them down. He found Erica not long after, but he could only stay long enough to administer the anti-toxin, one of the two he carried. Boyd fared better, though their numbers were superior and cutting a few of them in two only pissed them off.

The fight began with surprise with Stiles and a few others on one side of the preserve, Derek and the others miles off. And even though the fighting converged on one spot, he hadn't seen Derek in hours. That was enough to wring the air out of his lungs.

_This is only the first fight,_ he told himself as he followed the path Scott cut through the trees. _You're not gonna lose him. It's just the first fight._

“Come on,” Stiles muttered, teeth pressing together and his voice barely more than a growl. He couldn't run. He didn't know how far away Derek was, but hopefully not far. He could feel the blood spreading out from the wounds on his shoulder and his wrist was swollen twice its usual size, the pain rendering both arms nearly useless. The woods around him echoed with familiar cries from the pack. He heard Isaac. He heard Jackson. He heard Erica.

He heard Scott.

Stiles stopped cold, the momentum of his body nearly knocking him off of his feet.

Instead, he pushed himself into an uneven jog in the direction he'd been heading. There were too many thoughts swirling around in his head to catch more than one. They raced away time and time again. Only one of them proved logical to his frenzied mind.

_Something's wrong._

“Scott!” Stiles' voice was hoarse, but he found the will to scream. “Scott! Where the hell are you!?”

In front of him, in a clearing ahead, he saw Jackson stop just long enough for Stiles to see him. There was a panic on his face that registered immediately, and he took off in Scott's direction a moment later, leaving Stiles cursing and struggling to go faster.

_He's hurt_.

The thought tightened an iron grip around Stiles' throat, forcing him to fight through the urge to stop and remember how to breathe. He couldn't. He couldn't stop. If Derek was hurt, he'd need the anti-toxin in his jacket. He'd need him there as soon as possible. _Go faster._ The woods around him was a blur of black and silver. When he heard another howl from Scott, he finally tore off in a run. _He needs you. Go. Faster._

He went faster. The pain melted away into a dull ache; his own injuries were the least of his problems. His problem was getting to Derek. His problem was making sure he was okay.

When Stiles finally rounded the corner to the place where Scott's howls had originated, a strong arm barred him from moving forward. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and he gasped for more air, both hands pushing at Scott's forearm in spite of the sudden, sharp reminder of a broken wrist.

“What?” he spat out, struggling to remove himself from Scott's grasp and failing. “What are you – _Stop_. Let me go.”

“Stiles—”

He pushed and pushed and pushed. The soles of his boots dug past fallen leaves and into the dirt, body squirming and his hand finally meeting Scott's chest. He was strong, stronger now than he'd ever been. Even then, he couldn't get away.

“Stiles!” Stiles stopped. He looked into Scott's eyes. They were heavy-lidded and sad. He smelled like blood. “ _Stiles._ You can't! You can't, okay? Just—just come with me.”

That look in his eyes, the distant, 'something worse than bad has happened' look, gave Stiles the strength to wrench himself out of Scott's arms. Part of him would always wish he hadn't. Part of him would look back on that night and think, 'You should have gone with him.' But part of him also knew turning that corner was the reason he kept fighting.

There was too much blood.

Stiles moved forward, his stride still hobbled, with that single thought ringing in his head and every other one stilled. There was blood on the ground, weighing down the dry grass and staining the leaves. There was blood thick enough to reflect moonlight on the trees. There was blood on the side of his face, smeared bright red over his cheek from where his ear had been.

Covering his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket, Stiles continued forward, his already blurred vision distorting everything around him. He could barely make Jackson out as more than a shape standing in his way. He moved when Stiles stepped up, and Stiles kept on. He couldn't even see the rope tied around Derek's wrists. He couldn't see the bone protruding from his forearm. What was left of his bottom half was a mess of black and dark reds. These were details he would remember later, details dreams and late nights awake would refresh.

_Why'd you run?_

Stiles reached out, numb fingers bumping against Derek's stomach before they twisted ineffectually at the fabric of his shirt. He pulled him forward. The only hesitation was the dead weight of his body tugging at an injured wrist.

_Why'd you have to run? You couldn't do anything. He was already dead._

The Alpha's howl. That must have been when Derek stopped struggling, stopped bleeding, stopped breathing. That must have been why they left. Sacrificing betas wasn't a problem if it meant killing a pack's Alpha.

“Oh, god.” Stiles pressed his forehead against Derek's chest, eyes clenched shut so tightly not even a tear could get through. They were all stuck in his throat. They were in his voice and in the pathetic gasp of an breath that followed. Every breath he took after was through his mouth, struggling to keep the smell of the blood and gore only inches away out of his nostrils.

His other hand grasped for his shirt, only inches away from the one already clutched there, and he pressed his face just above them both. Any other time, being in that place, face nuzzled into Derek's chest with his nose pressed against his sternum, would lead to a kiss on the crown of his head.

Stiles' uneven heartbeat almost stopped when it hit him. The body he held onto was cold. He wouldn't be getting a kiss on his head or a hand in his hair. He wouldn't sleep there, twisted up in an awkward position at Derek's side so he could see the television. Everything left over, every day after this one, would be different. Bad different. Empty different.

His shoulders shook, working up and down before he was able to open his eyes against soft, black cotton.

Tilting his chin upwards, Stiles looked at Derek's face once, and only for a moment.

His eyes were still open. His mouth was, too. And he was still. He was so still Stiles wouldn't bear to look at him.

When he turned away, Scott was standing only a few feet from him, his face creased with empathy that only twisted the grief in his guts. His friend reached out when he got closer, but Stiles shrugged him off, tears scrubbed away with leather. Boyd was there, too, the arm he had curled around Erica's waist sliding down between them when Stiles glanced in their direction.

“We'll kill them,” Jackson said at his back. “Every single one of them. Ten times worse than this, alright?” When Stiles didn't reply, he moved forward, spoke louder. “Alright? They're not getting away with this.”

“Just _stop,_ alright?” Stiles' voice was sharper than he'd meant, but in the end, he was only surprised he could speak at all. “Not... not right now. I can't think about this right now.”

Jackson huffed, and everyone expected him to say something more. He didn't.

The others stayed behind. Only Stiles and Scott moved forward.

Stiles' limp worsened with every step, but Scott knew better than to wrap an arm around his waist. He knew better than to help him. Touching Stiles right now would only mean a struggle. His support had to be intangible, something to feel, but not to be touched by. He could work with that.

They didn't speak. For the longest time, there was no sound but the crunching of leaves, the wind. A few minutes after leaving the clearing, they heard a quiet, mournful howl through the trees. Isaac's. The sound of it sent Stiles on edge, a reminder of the scene at his back. He knew how death worked; he'd lost both of his parents. Everything would be a reminder. Every corner of the Hale house, every howl, every wolfsbane bullet would be a reminder of what he'd lost. That would be with him every day for the rest of his life.

“You're the Alpha now?”

  
Scott glanced in Stiles' direction, staying silent for a moment before nodding. “Guess it made the most sense.”

Stiles said nothing at first. He just kept walking. When he did speak, though, only a few yards later, his voice was quiet. “Tomorrow, gather whatever ammunition we have. Call Danny; we need him involved, too. We need Allison and her family's contacts. Derek has friends in other packs. Contact them. Get them here as soon as possible. After this pack wipes us out, they'll go for another one. We have to stop them before that happens.”

“So we're still fighting?”

They stopped; Stiles first, and Scott just after. The former stared across at the latter, his wide eyes dark beneath flattened brows. Stiles could barely think straight, much less come up with a reason to fight. Should he have been tearing through the woods, looking for a someone to kill? Should he want to rush into something while he was in so far over his head, using his pride as an excuse when they cut him down? Or should he give up? Should he curl up until the covers in their bed and wait it out, wait until the Hale house burned a second time?

Stiles' jaw twitched. “We can't just roll over and take it.”

“So, yeah, we're fighting.” Scott seemed to perk up at the thought, though Stiles felt most of his sudden energy was born from a desire to help. “For Derek.”

“For the pack,” Stiles corrected him.

Their eyes met again before he turned away and continued the long walk back to the house. Before long, his hand was at his mouth, and he was chewing at his cuticle, chewing at his thumb's nail, chewing at anything he could tear off.

By the time they reached the house, Stiles was too exhausted to notice the taste of blood on his tongue.

And he didn't see the dark red smear of a foreign triskelion on the front door.


	3. Chapter 3

**2029.**

Stiles was accustomed to loss. 

He lost his mother when he was ten, his father when he was thirty; there had been werewolves that died in the name of protecting their alphas and people who never survived the bite. 

Losing Derek was different. 

With his parents, it was painful. He stuffed it down and ignored it until it was too much to bear, and even when he felt like he was going to snap, he just buried it back down. 

The two years he had now spent without his mate (he may not have been a werewolf, but he sure as hell got used to the term) were achingly empty. There was no pain, just absence. And you can't hide what isn't there. 

The lack of any other emotional response turned into an asset for the pack. Stiles was still Stiles. He had his friends, eager to look out for him and thirsty for vengeance, and he had his humor, though nowadays his sarcasm was far more biting. 

Even with Scott as the Alpha, the pack looked to Stiles for answers and guidance, and he provided it. 

Two years of guerrilla tactics, the development of wolfsbane grenades with Danny and Lydia's expertise and Jackson's money, and a pack receiving orders from someone with a cool head lead to massive causalities for the Nagualand a resounding zero for the Hales. 

(There were no Hales left that Stiles knew about but that didn't stop him from keeping the name alive.) 

Torture was often times completely useless on werewolves, but you spend enough time living with a pack, especially as a human, and you learn things, things even hunters don't. 

Electricity is great when you're keeping them from shifting, but nothing will make a wolf cave faster than a piercing, constant noise. Like a baby crying, or a dog whistle, or a blow horn. Anything designed not to be ignored. 

Add that to the fact they had Jackson, Erica, and Isaac on their side and it was only a matter of time before some poor beta gave up their pack's lair. 

Lairs. 

There were three. A temporary forward base in Beacon Hills, another on the Mexican border, and their ancestral home in the deepest recesses of the Aztec ruins in Mexico City. 

There were lines most pack wolves wouldn't cross, and giving away the location of their alpha was one of them, especially with an alpha like theirs. Brutal and cunning and vicious – Stiles didn't exactly blame any of them for keeping quiet. 

It made it easier to order their execution, anyway. 

Their goal was the alpha, Xochitl. Even Stiles had to admit it wasn't the most tactically sound plan, but he had to meet the pack at a middle ground. They wanted Derek's killer dead, and this pack needed to be eliminated down to the last wolf. So he gave them what they wanted. 

Their first order of business, regardless of which lair Xochitl was holed up in, was to take out the forward base. They had used some maintenance entrance along the rail depot, somewhere Stiles had forgotten about amongst his years. Luckily, Boyd could find just about anything with the right lead and incentive. 

Doused in odor neutralizer, Stiles, Danny and the wolves made their way through the familiar forest. They smelled of nothing, blended with the shadows playing off the light of the waxing moon, and made no sound. They had perfected the art of being little more than air rustling the branches. 

Until they found their way into the base. 

They all knew their roles. 

Jackson, Erica, Isaac and a mated pair of males from Chicago were the pack's first wave, the infiltrators, the scouts. Quick, practiced bites to windpipes kept the kills quiet. The wolves hanging behind dragged the bodies off to be eaten by the younger members of their pack to help their strength and feed their lust for the kill. 

Stiles kept a silenced pistol at the ready for these moments, but rarely shot. This slaughter was for his wolves. Not for him. He felt no rush of joy or thrill of justice being served. He was blessed with his human mind, his focus, where his pack was wild with the taste of blood. He had one goal, and a broadsword strapped on his back for when he found the bitch. 

Things remained careful and organized until a howl bellowed through the abandoned tunnel, Jackson's signal that they hadn't been able to kill someone in time. 

That meant the wolves were free to kill at will. 

Stiles pushed forward, paying little attention to the growing number of bleeding corpses with throats and organs ripped out to keep the Nagual from healing. 

“Do you think she's here?” Danny asked, just a few paces behind. He was toeing the bodies, making sure they weren't still alive. 

“This feels wrong,” Stiles muttered through a tight jaw. “We're good, yeah, but the betas we captured had to be from here, right? Why aren't they better defended?” 

“Probably didn't think you could get anything out of them.” He paused for a beat, licking his lips. “You're thinking it's a trap.” 

Stiles nodded, holstering his silenced gun in favor of his .357 Magnum. “These guys have been around too long for it not to be.” He picked up his pace, following the sounds of carnage coming from a platform about fifty feet away. “I'm all for it. If she thinks she can take on an entire pack hellbent on tearing her apart, makes my life easier.” 

Danny plucked a wolfsbane grenade from the lining of his jacket, rolling the rough metal in his hand. “What if it's not her?” 

Stiles didn't stop. “Then we kill whoever's important enough for her to send, and we keep killing them until we finally have her bisected.” 

Danny stopped asking questions after that. 

If Stiles hadn't been here before, the blood and offal and bone would have made the station unrecognizable. It was Derek's old hideout. 

He really wasn't sure why he was surprised. 

It was some sort of sick self-fulfilling prophecy. _This feels wrong_ ; that was no better than the cliched, “I've got a bad feeling about this.” But while Stiles was momentarily surprised at finding himself standing in Derek's old hideout, when the blood shifted and the air crackled in his ears, his heart rate barely sped.

The cracked bones of deer and other animals shifted, pushed away by hands streaked with blood and fresh marrow, and Stiles' nostrils flared as reality converged at a single point.

Witches.

Two men and a woman.

There was nothing cliched about them, though. He'd watched Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom too many times to expect the witches who stepped out in front of him. They were clothed simply – black shirts, jeans, thick-soled boots. Their features were so similar they could have been mistaken for triplets. Maybe they were. Stiles didn't care enough to ask.

“Danny, go.”

Danny tensed beside him, thumbing the grenade's pin.

“They're not werewolves. Save the grenade. _Go._ ”

One of the witches – the tallest; the woman – jerked her chin towards the way they'd come. They were letting him go instead of killing him. At least, they would if Danny took the out they were willing to give. If he stayed, Stiles doubted they would afford him the same option again.

Stiles turned towards him and lowered his voice. “Get out of here. Go find the others.”

He nodded, turned, and ran off. Stiles squared his jaw despite the sudden, cool rush of air he felt at Danny's sudden absence.

His attention was twisted back to the three standing in front of him at the sound of steel scraping across the rusted platform beneath their feet. One of the male witches was carrying a broadsword. The blade was all but covered in dried, flaking blood, and it took no leap of logic to know exactly whose blood it was. They hadn't killed any of his pack. Not since Derek.

“You're gonna kill me, too.”

The man dragging the sword at his side peered at Stiles. He had to tilt his chin slightly to look into his eyes. Instead of getting it over with in a single sweep or piercing thrust of the blade, he shook his head. “No.”

Stiles never thought the prospect of _not_ dying could sound so sinister.

The woman slipped a needle point dagger from her belt. “We're giving you what we didn't give him,” she said slowly, enunciating every word in her heavily-accented voice. She didn't want him to mistake her. More than that, she wanted to take her time. Even holding so much power over him, she didn't smile. She didn't smirk. Her expression was nothing more than a weak glower. “A choice.”

“You get to go back,” said the man at her side, his hands lacing together in front of him. He was missing two fingers on the left, one on the right. “See him again.”

This time, she managed a glare, but it wasn't in Stiles' direction. Beside her, the man pressed his teeth together and snarled soundlessly. Then backed off. “You tell him to join us,” she continued once he was dealt with, stepping closer to Stiles even as the other witch took a step forward. The sound of metal grinding against metal filled his ears again. “You tell him that, and he doesn't die.”

Stiles' jaw twitched. His molars ground together.

“Sound good?” She moved around him, faster than any wolf he'd ever seen, and before he could so much as shout, his pistol was on the ground and his wrists were held together in a single, crushing grip. “Sounds good, right?”

Biting down on the inside of his mouth, Stiles shut his eyes to block out the sudden rush of blood down the front of his face and the pain from the cut her dagger left across his forehead. Then he felt her hand, a warm palm wiping over even warmer blood, gathering it, smearing it.

The man with the blade stepped up to her, lifting the broadsword until it was level with her waist. 

That same palm, slicked as it was with Stiles' blood, pressed against the sword until her own skin split. The wetness of their intermingled blood dampened Derek's, lifting it from the steel and joining it on her tanned skin. 

“You tell him to join us,” she repeated. Her voice was tight. There was pain in it, pain she ignored in favor of pressing her hand into the crown of his head. He felt her push downwards, heard the sword drop, felt two more hands on his shoulders.

His legs buckled under the pressure, and he fell to his knees.

The man kept his hands on Stiles' shoulders; the woman let go, though she left a hand print of red in his short hair. Dragging her fingers through the blood in her palm, she drew the first rune at the crown of his skull. The second, at the back of his neck. And the third she drew on his chest, staining the fabric of his shirt just below his collarbone.

When the three of them spoke again, it was in a language he didn't understand. He'd taken two years of Spanish in high school, but this was different. This sounded older.

That's when the runes began to burn.

This was magic; it _was_ older. Older than anything the Hales had in their arsenal of knowledge. Older than their Celtic ancestors. Older than anything he'd ever bothered to research. And the pain only increased with the volume of their voices.

Stiles' head spun, but he remained stationary, the man's hands pressing him down to keep him from moving.

They were trying to send him back.

This didn't feel like magic. The burning on his skin didn't feel like a spell. It felt like they were trying to boil him alive in his own skin, like they were trying to kill him. Maybe they were. Stiles gasped, but the sound was lost in the chant. They were. They had to be.

When the voices went quiet, there was a lingering moment of calm despite the pain.

Then he felt fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. The woman shoved him back, and he fell. His head hit the pavement with a thump and a crack. The burning stopped.

For who knows how long, everything stopped.

When Stiles woke up, he was in the forest. It was the Beacon Hills Preserve; he knew the smell of the air. They'd dragged him back, but... why?

Groaning, he felt around the back of his head to check for damage. His skull was fine, if sticky. There was no broken bone, no permanent damage. He was fine, for the most part, even through the splitting headache and the blood drying his eyes shut.

Stiles rubbed at them until he could open his eyes, and he knew his kneejerk reaction had been correct. He was on the preserve. It was time to go home. Count their losses, figure out where they were going from there.

He stood. His bones ached, a reminder of the beating he'd taken over the past few months, but he started moving in the direction of the path. The path would lead to the house. The house would lead to the pack. He couldn't get lost in these woods anymore. He'd spent too much time running around out here to not know where he was headed.

A good distance separated him from the house. The walk gave him time to think when he was able to dodge the mind-clouding pain that still lanced through his head.

They told him they were going to send him back.

Did they mean Derek?

Did they mean to send Derek back so he could convince him and the rest of the pack to join with the Nagual? 

That was as likely as anything, and Stiles' heart sped at the possibility. Sometimes he allowed himself the hope that he'd throw open the door and Derek would be sitting on the stairs, waiting for him to get home. When he walked the path, he wondered what Derek was doing. Was he playing with Jackson and Lydia's son? Was he sharpening the sword for Boyd? Was he helping Isaac in the kitchen?

He wasn't. It was a stupid trick of Stiles' mind, but it let him relax. It let him breathe. And even though it hurt his lungs, he was grateful for the chance.

But this time there was magic involved. He had seen things happen that would never come to past in normal situations outside of this world he'd fallen into, where werewolves and witches were just another part of the job. Maybe they could bring him back. And maybe he could convince him to side with the Nagual.

When he reached the Hale house, however, those thoughts were all but torn out of his head.

The house was nothing but a headstone from the past.

It was destroyed, burned by fire and left a shell, one built from a collapsed roof and bones made of charcoal. He remembered this house. This was the Hale house as he first really saw it. First in the papers so many years before, later once Derek moved back to Beacon Hills.

They burned it down.

Breath left Stiles' lungs as he lurched forward. He didn't have his pistol. It was likely still on the ground in the abandoned tunnel. All he had was a knife strapped to the inside of his coat, sheath and all. He drew it and clutched the handle until his knuckles burned white. His strides were clumsier than usual as he half-stumbled up the stairs that led to the front entryway, his thoughts too frenzied and his limbs too heavy to be careful.

When he opened the door, it creaked on its hinges. It stuck once it was fully opened, leaving his back to the cool air of late fall.

Rushing into the kitchen, down the hallway, all around the house, he found no one. He couldn't even smell smoke. He considered how long he'd been unconscious. This didn't seem possible, but his mind refused to accept anything else.

He was nearly out of the door again, a shout of Scott's name caught in his throat, when it slammed shut in his face. 

Before he could turn to look at the intruder, Stiles hit the wall beside the door's frame, the side of his face smashed against the splintering wood. The person at his back leaned in, so close he could hear them inhale through their nose. And when they exhaled, they did so with a frustrated noise, something too soft to be a growl, behind which lay a familiar heat.

“Who are you?”

The voice, too, was familiar. Stiles craned his head to get a look at the person behind him. No sooner had he gotten a glimpse of him did his eyes clench shut again.

“Why do you smell like Stiles?”

It was Derek.

They really had sent him back.

Him as in Stiles. Back as in _back_.

All the way to 2012.


	4. Chapter 4

The intruder smelled of blood. Blood and gunpowder and wolfsbane and _Stiles_. Why would hunters go after a human with the alpha pack around?  


Had he put him at risk by letting him get close?  


Derek's forearm eased away from the man's neck only to smash his cheek against the burnt wood for a second time. “Who. Are. You.” He jostled him with every full stop, grinding his face against the wall. Derek twisted the man's arm with his free hand until it was a hair's breadth away from snapping. “What did you do to him? Tell me, and I won't break every bone you have before I kill you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles groaned against the wall, body otherwise slack to express that he wasn't a threat. Not that Derek was picking up on that little detail. His head was still reeling from the reality of it all. How exactly do you use logic to explain going back in time only to be smashed against the wall by the guy you dated for fifteen years?

When he struggled, Derek only gripped him harder. He felt the promise of claws on his wrist. “I didn't do anything to him. Take a deep breath.” His chest was pressed too hard against the wall for him to get a good, deep breath. “You'll figure it out eventually.”

Derek's response was to twist his arm further, straining the shoulder joint in its socket.  


“You smell like him,” he said in a low, calculated tone. “Like _blood_ , like werewolves. If you want me – if you want my _pack_ – you _aren't_ going through him.” Derek gripped onto the collar of the supple leather of Stiles' jacket, moving backward and dragging him along just to turn him around, slamming his back to the wall instead, forearm quickly pressing underneath his Adam's apple.  


The man's honey-brown eyes made Derek's eyebrows twitch inward. His glare seemed more confused than threatening, voice giving much the same impression. “... Who are you?” 

Stiles tilted his chin up to take in a deep breath. When he looked at Derek again, his throat ran dry, but he was determined not to give up any facial cues. Or verbal cues. Or anything that would show Derek just how difficult it was to look him in the eye. “I'm roughly your height. Brown eyes. Moles.” He paused, setting his jaw and staring right back at him. “Do I really have to say it?”

Derek's face crinkled further. He took a step back, careful and tense with shoulders hunched and knees bent – he was spring loaded and poised to attack. “ _Stiles?_ ” As if it'd make things clearer, he shook his head and blinked.  


And then he narrowed his eyes, this time without a hint of bewilderment. “If you pissed off a witch while I'm trying to handle the alphas, I will _personally_ deliver you to them.” Derek paused briefly, drawing himself up to full height but still prepared to launch into action if need be. “Aren't you supposedly the _intelligent_ one?” 

“Yeah, I thought so, too.”

Rubbing at his throat, Stiles slumped back against the wall again. “This isn't what you think it is. I wasn't on my way home and cut a witch off on a back road.” When his eyes found Derek's face again, he smiled without baring teeth. There wasn't any charm in it. “Different pack, different witch, different... time. It's 2012, right? Somewhere around there?”

“Not quite. It's December 27th, 2011.” Derek rolled his neck in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up in his muscles. It ached when he wasn't able to release the energy. “ _If_ this is on the up-and-up – and don't think for a minute I actually believe this – why are you _here_? You must have a message for Scott.” 

Stiles stared at him for a long moment before his eyes fell to the floor at his feet. 

“Seventeen years,” he muttered on an exhale, blinking disbelievingly at the charred wood beneath his boots. There were no words for how poorly this was already progressing. And when time came into it all, the potential for destruction was catastrophic, even with the idea that he might be able to convince Derek to join the Nagual. He just hadn't convinced himself that was the best plan yet. “Shit. Anyway. You're the Alpha; why do you think I'd have a message for Scott?”

“Because you and I barely tolerate each other?” Derek could hear the skip of his own heartbeat. “There's also the part where you reek of being a hunter, and I doubt I'm on your exception list. Especially when Scott--” His jaw twitched, feet shifting on the creaking wooden panels beneath them.  


“I'm not _the_ Alpha,” he muttered. “There's seven in Beacon Hills right now and it's only a matter of time before Scott adds to that number.” 

Stiles chuckled under his breath. “Right. Of course it'd be the Alpha pack. Trust me, they're nothing.”

Without another word, Stiles crossed over into the living room, dropping down on the leather couch the pack picked out so long ago. _It wasn't long ago,_ he had to remind himself, carefully straightening his posture and checking his jacket for what remained. He traveled light into the tunnel; all he had on him was a few vials of anti-toxin and ammo for his pistol. His knife was still at his belt.

“Can you get me something to wipe my face off?” Scratching at the dried blood on his skin, it came off in flakes into his palm. “We need to talk.”

Derek didn't question Stiles' familiarity with the house. Not yet.  


The werewolf headed upstairs, returning with a bowl of cold water and a rag. He still relied on the nearby reservoir.  


“Here,” Derek said, passing the items over to Stiles, jerking his chin toward him. “That cut looks deep.” 

“It is,” Stiles muttered without missing a beat. 

Swallowing the truth of the situation was somehow even more difficult on him. There was nothing about sitting here with Derek that didn't make him uncomfortable. He didn't want to be here; he wanted to be in his own time, in his house with his pack, not sitting with ghosts, pretending they weren't involved.

He dripped the rag into the water and began scrubbing his face. When he hit the cut, he pressed his teeth together in a hiss, but made no sound otherwise. Before long, the water was red.

Glancing up at Derek, his chin tilted down and the rag still pressed against his skin, he swallowed hard.

“You should sit down.”

There was something about the way Stiles looked at him that caused Derek to unquestioningly grab for one of the two chairs in the room, a busted up old thing with a torn cushion, but Isaac had been proud of finding it.  


 “What's this about?” Derek leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. “You're a little late to change anything important, don't you think?” 

“No,” Stiles replied simply. 

Finished scrubbing at his face, he let the rag fall into the water and placed it off to the side, relaxing back into the couch like the cushion was already formed to his body, like he'd sat in it a million times before. In reality, he'd only sat on it a handful of times. But Stiles formed a lot of fond memories on this couch.

_Very_ fond memories. Memories that would normally make his heart speed up, if he wasn't still struggling to keep from losing every scrap of air in his lungs every time he looked into Derek's eyes.

“They gave me a choice. They told me to come back here and convince you of something.” He rubbed his hands over the rough fabric of his jeans. They were stained with blood, just like the rest of him. “I still haven't convinced myself I should tell you. But that's why I'm here.”

“And I'm just supposed to believe that?” Derek rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why _you_? Why not Isaac? Boyd? Someone who doesn't seem to thrive on getting under my skin.” His eyes flicked to the side of Stiles' face before returning. “None of this adds up. The only reason I believe you're Stiles is because I have an overwhelming desire to throw you out on your ass.” 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at Derek, more out of watching his expression than exasperation. Though there was a fair bit of that, as well. “So I've got to spell it out for you. Figures.” Instead of watching his expression, he laced his fingers together between his knees and settled against the cushions again. “They sent _me_ back to tell you because we were together. Yes, together as in mated, as in together for almost fifteen years. That's why they sent me back. To get under _my_ skin, not yours.”

The silence was palpable.  


It was strangling them both, keeping them from looking at each other, one caught up on a Christmas Day kiss, the other struggling to keep such memories far from the forefront of his mind.  


When Derek finally looked at Stiles once more, he began to understand his mannerisms. The aversion of his eyes, the way his breath caught and voice strained. He knew those signs all too well. Even six years later, Laura had her bouts of melancholy, as much as she tried to be strong for the two of them.  


“I'm... dead.” Derek seemed to be tasting the word. The notion of his own mortality was odd. There had never been a time he wished for his own death, even with all the blood on his hands and guilt on his conscience. “They're manipulating you... for what? Why not just kill you?” 

“I don't fucking know!” The words that rushed out of Stiles were louder than he intended, and he lifted a hand to scrub over his head. He could've gone the rest of his life without hearing those words in that voice. Somehow, even after two years of accepting what happened, it never felt quite as real as when he heard Derek say it. “Power? They want submission, not a fight. We're kicking ass. Or we were. I don't know what's happening now.”

Derek didn't flinch.  


“Maybe they figured killing the alpha's mate would just cause more problems,” he murmured to himself, furrowing his brow. When he looked at Stiles again, he raised his voice to something more audible. “They probably want us both in their pack. Who are they?” 

“Nagual. Their history's tied in with the Aztecs. They're looking for more wolves to join their pack. It's join or die with them.” Stiles' expression was hard when he looked at Derek again, the edge of his all but notorious sarcasm sharper than ever. “They're fun.”

Letting out a huff of a laugh through his nose, Derek sat up, resting his hands on his knees. “I remember a little about them. Guess I shouldn't be surprised that we managed to piss off one of the biggest packs in the world with the worst reputation.”  


He chewed on his bottom lip for a few seconds, hazel eyes flicking over Stiles' face and clothing. “I'm not going to submit,” he said firmly, though his voice soften when he spoke next. “Where does that leave you?” 

When Stiles finally looked back at him, his expression was blank save for a wrinkle between his brows, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy. Leaden. Rougher than what he equated with Scott's scrawny, perpetually annoying best friend.

“Without a mate and probably dead in a few years.”

Derek's heart ached for the man sitting across from him. He wasn't entirely sure if it was just empathy or if it was the fact that he was Stiles, but either way it was distressing. Just a few days ago, the Stiles that he knew had come over with a perfectly wrapped gift. A step up from the phone he had bought him the year prior, which had been in it's commercial box and handed over with a muttered, “Stop stalking us and learn to text.”  


They had argued, Derek didn't want the gift, or didn't want to admit he wanted the gift, he wasn't sure. Stiles accused him of being a prick toward people who actual gave a shit about him. He remembered more yelling, getting closer, moving away, circling one another, until... well, he wasn't entirely sure who started it, or if they both had a hand in it, but the fighting ended with a tongue in Stiles' mouth and a hand up Dereks' shirt.  


Stiles hadn't talked to him since, and Derek didn't even open the gift.  


Was that was started it all? The first domino that ultimately left Stiles with nothing but a mess to clean up and a bleak future to look forward to?  


“...Doesn't the pack need you?” Derek said, voice quiet, almost patronizingly so. “If you were my... mate, they must've depended on you, too.” 

“I didn't say I was gonna abandon them,” Stiles retorted, shoulders raising almost defensively. “I can't ask the Nagual to take it easy on me because I've got a pack back home. If I don't change this and I go back, there's a very good chance we'll _all_ be dead by the end of it.”

_If I don't change this._ The thought echoed in his head. _If I go back. If._

This wasn't a matter of if. This was a matter of how and when and if anything would be different once he returned. Going back to something changed meant going back to Derek, but it also meant going back to another pack and a life full of more grisly questions than before and a potentially changed man. It was a subject he didn't want to dwell on while sitting right in front of him. He could consider that later.

“And there's no _ifs_ about it, Derek. I was your mate. The pack's mine now. Scott's the Alpha, but it's still me leading them. I understand that you probably don't get it. But what we had...? I'm not big on anyone questioning it, much less hearing it out of _your_ mouth.” 

Where Derek could intimidate the Stiles he knew with a glare, he felt compelled to avert his eyes. Out of shame, out of submission – he wasn't really sure, but there was no doubt in his mind that this man knew him and knew him well.  


“I'm sorry,” he muttered under his breath. “He and I... uh, _you_ and I...” Clearing his throat, Derek shook his head, sighing. “I can't really complain about feeling like a rug's been pulled out from under me without feeling like a prick.” 

“I'm not pulling the victim card here,” Stiles said, placating in a way the Stiles Derek knew would never even attempt. He pulled himself up onto his feet. He paced. “So don't make that mistake. I just don't want to hear it, alright? It's confusing and frustrating and not the kind of thing anyone wants to deal with, but here I am and I'm already dealing with seeing you again. That's enough.”

Stiles rubbed over his buzzcut. Back and forth, back and forth, blunt nails scratching at his scalp before turning around and facing him. “Help me find some way to get back. You're not changing your mind. I can't leave them there, and I sure as hell can't stay here.”

“I wasn't accusing you,” Derek explained. “You're a lot of things, but I've never thought of you as a victim.”  


Swallowing thickly, the werewolf nodded toward the stairway. “I have some clothes that might fit you. Deaton will be closing up soon, we can go see him tonight if you want.” 

The thought of putting on Derek's clothes twisted Stiles' stomach into knots. He'd spent too many days in his leather jacket, too many nights with his face pressed against fabric that smelled like his skin. It was a smell that never changed, an undercurrent that would only bring everything back to life. But he couldn't go anywhere looking like he did, especially not to the clinic.

So he nodded. “Yeah,” he muttered, hands digging into his pockets. “Sounds good.”

Even as Derek turned away to head up the stairs, Stiles' mouth fell open to speak. Nothing came out of it, not even a breath, until he was forced to take one in through his nose. He wanted to ask him if he'd reconsider. The witches gave him a choice to change things. But he couldn't convince Derek to give up.

He couldn't even convince himself that he actually wanted to leave.


	5. Chapter 5

While Stiles made his way to the vet clinic, his present counterpart was already there.  


And he wasn't particularly happy about it.  


“Okay, no,” Stiles said as he placed a freshly labeled vial back into its slot. “That's it. I've come here every night for the past five days because you keep telling me you're going to teach me how to 'harness my innate powers.'” He rolled his eyes, swiveling back and forth on the stool he was sitting on. “So far, all you've done is Huckleberry Finn me, and I'm sick of it.”  


Deaton chuckled, looking up from his clipboard for only a second. “You'll understand soon enough,” he murmured, scribbling a few notes down. “The lesson I'm teaching you... isn't an exact science, unfortunately. And it's not even taught by me.”  


The teenager slid off his seat. “Nope, forget it.” He hurriedly made his way to his backpack, grabbing the strap and flinging it over his shoulder. “Maybe Scott eats up that cryptic crap, but I'd rather be doing my _homework_ than listen to you not tell me a goddamn thing for another hour.”  


“Stiles--”  


The bell rang just as Stiles was opening the mountain ash laced wooden gate between the office and the waiting room. Beacon Hills' resident alpha, somehow the first and the last person he wanted to see all at the same time.  


“What the hell are _you_ doing here?” His upturned nose crinkled as he jerked his chin to the older man standing next to Derek. “Bite someone else? So what's your problem? Drugs? Homeless? Wife left you?” 

“Honestly? Bratty kids.” 

Derek shot the elder of the two a look, one that read _play nice_.

“Oh, yeah, good one,” Stiles replied with a huff. “Well, I'm leaving you three alone. I couldn't take another second in here anyway. Good luck putting up with Deaton's crap.” He moved forward, but was barred from the door by the new guy's arm. “What the – what's your _problem_?”

The guy's eyebrows rose on his forehead. There was something incredibly familiar about him, but it was something Stiles couldn't quite place.

“You should probably sit down.”

“And you should go screw yourself. I'm not--”  


Before the younger Stiles could continue, Derek was resting a hand on his shoulder, tilting his chin down, though it was unnecessary to look into his eyes. “It's important,” he said. “Stay.” 

Stiles' shoulders slumped downward, momentarily placated. “I've been _staying_ for three hours at this point. Teenager, remember? High school. Homework. Social life.” When the guy gave a snort of amusement, he earned himself a glare. “What's so important? I need. To go. Home.”

“I know. It's--” Derek peered at Deaton for some sort of help, working his jaw when he saw the man simply cross his arms over his chest and shrug. “It involves _us_.” All it took was the raise of his thick brows to get his point across. “We'll talk afterwords, but for right now, I'm asking you to stay and listen.”  


The veterinarian finally deigned to pipe in. “This is the man I've been inviting you to speak to,” Deaton explained. “Foresight, like I said, isn't exact. I knew the month, not the day. I couldn't risk you not being here to meet the man you become seventeen years from now.” He paused, tilting his head. “Well, the man you _can_ become. Time's an uncontrollable beast at its best.” 

Stiles lifted up a hand to give him a nonchalant wave.

Other Stiles blinked.

So that's why he looked so familiar. It was like looking into a particularly unflattering mirror. Except... “Holy shit, I'm ripped.”

It was Deaton who laughed first, the 'ripped' Stiles following suit with a huff of one, smirking more than smiling as he moved past both Derek and his younger self to get into the exam room with the vet.  


That left the werewolf and the teenager that gave him a mash of conflicting feelings alone in the waiting room.  


“You meet your future self and the first thing you notice is _that_?” Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, rolling his eyes under closed lids. “I actually fear the day your mind makes any sort of sense to me.” 

“It's how I cope.” Tugging his backpack higher on his shoulder, Stiles took a step back. As he spoke, his voice rose, deviating between strained and almost manic. “I'm talking to a werewolf in a city full of werewolves, most of them trying to kill you and everyone I even like a _little_ bit. The vet's a psychic or a seer or whatever he is. There's nothing not seriously weird about my life.” He threw his hands up into the air. “Might as well throw in some time travel!”

Sighing, Derek dropped his hand back down to his side. He couldn't fault Stiles for that. The stress was getting to him. “I'm sorry,” he muttered. “I didn't even know you were here. I'd rather you not have to be involved in this.” 

“So you were just gonna do this without me?” Setting his jaw, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Right. Of course you were. But you're not. Not anymore, alright? Deaton wanted me to be a part of this, so I'm a part of it. You don't get to pick and choose my battles, Derek.”

“Believe it or not, Stiles, I –” Derek cut himself off and shook his head. “We'll talk after we're done here. There's... things we need to sort out. For right now, can we just pretend we get along and see why Deaton seems to know more about this than any of us?” There was another, heavier sigh. “ _Again_.” 

Stiles shrugged and muttered a quiet, “Whatever,” before turning and moving in the direction of the exam room. 

Once he got there, he saw... himself (still weird, no matter all the other strange things going on in his life) sitting up on the table, talking to Deaton, who stood with his back to the door. 

Sometimes, when things got really bad or really eerie and unsettling, Stiles wished he'd never gone into the woods with Scott that night. He wished Scott hadn't gotten bitten. He wished none of this was happening. He could deal with homework and lacrosse and being ignored by Lydia; dealing with werewolves and hunters and seers and time traveling versions of himself was a whole other ball game.

But then Derek pushed past him through the door and all he smelled was his soap and hair gel, and suddenly Stiles stopped thinking like that.

He was still having trouble convincing himself he didn't persevere because of the Alpha.

Charity, that's what it was. These people needed him.

Not the other way around.

–

The moment Deaton told Stiles they were looking for a knife, he understood.

It took Derek grabbing for his forearm to keep him from leaving the room right after he discovered the missing piece. The contact twisted his insides, but drove him back deeper into the room all the same. There was a reminder written in the clench of Derek's fingers in his jacket's sleeve. Don't rush. Rushing only leads to mistakes, injuries, and a wound from an Alpha would change everything.

If his brash behavior led to his seventeen-year-old self being bitten or clawed, what would change? Would he die, or would he turn? 

The idea of being a wolf brought the acidic bite of bile into his throat.

He swallowed it back. He stood. He listened.

“Only attack if it's completely necessary,” Deaton told them as he pulled open a drawer. He removed a vial filled with pale lilac dust. Nestled within the dust were flecks of black. Stiles recognized the powder in an instant. No sooner had he set the vial on the examination table did Stiles remove three of them from the inside of his jacket. When Deaton glanced up at him, there was a smile on his face, nestled at the very corners of his mouth. “I see you've come even more prepared than we are. Maybe you should be the one in charge of all this?”

Stiles could tell he wasn't serious. He set the tubes onto the table only a few inches away from the older formula. “Liquid works better than powder. The powder doesn't spread as quickly, and it takes some time to be absorbed by the muscle and into the blood stream.” His index finger pushed one of the tubes forward. “We've spent years on this. You have it nearly perfected.”

“That's good to know.”

The slight smile on Deaton's face spread into a larger one, and Stiles found himself returning it, though his the wound on his face made even a smirk tight and uncomfortable.

“I don't wanna be the asshole pointing out the obvious during a touching master/padawan moment, but there's only three of them.” The younger of the two flicked his index against the tube closest to him, watching as it rolled into one of the others. There was a clink. The second tube rolled more slowly until all three were spread apart and crooked. “We don't know how long he's – I'm – _he's_ gonna be here. So.”

“Wolfsbane bullets don't effect humans,” Stiles said casually. “If either of us get shot, it doesn't matter. So I'm just bringing one for Derek.”

He saw Derek lift his head towards him out of the corner of his eye. A moment passed where he considered not looking back at him, but he did. Something pulled his chin up; something guided his eyes. When they were finally looking at each other, Derek gave him a nod.

Stiles knew he shouldn't have looked.

He was still fighting with himself when they arrived at the preserve. With every stolen glance in Derek's direction, the internal struggle only grew louder. _Don't get attached. Stop looking at him. You've got to get out of here. There are no exceptions._

But Stiles was looking at him again. He sat in the backseat of his old Jeep with his knees nearly level with his shoulders, cramped as anything with the butt of a pistol lodged into his ribs, and he kept ignoring the awkward lack of talking and focused on the grind of the gears, the roar of the engine, the sounds of the road beneath them, all as unavoidable in the tin can he used to drive as was the line of Derek's jaw.

When his eyes were drawn to his jaw, they were drawn to the dark stubble growing there. When the struggle to ignore Derek raged on, it only served to underline his thoughts, thoughts that reminded him in vivid detail the brush of stubble over his lips.

He muttered a quiet _fuck_ that was lost in a loud jostle of the Jeep and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“We should have gone on foot,” Derek said, voice raised just enough for both of them to hear. “They'll hear this thing coming miles out.”

“Doesn't matter,” Stiles interrupted, hand planted on the seat in front of him as he leaned forward. “It's just going to be you and me. He's going to keep driving around.” At that, the younger Stiles slammed on the breaks hard enough for them to scream. They all nearly hit their head on the hard top as they shuddered to a stop. “If they didn't hear the Jeep before, they do now. Thanks.”

Shaking his head and gripping at the wheel, the younger Stiles shifted in his seat. “What the hell are you talking about? No way am I just driving around! When did that become the plan?”

“Exactly? Not sure. Maybe five or so minutes ago.”

“Oh my _god_ , sarcasm? Really?” His knuckles were white. “It's not like I needed more reasons to be self-loathing, but thanks a lot!”

Derek arched both brows, though they flattened again when the two Stiles' aimed eerily similar _looks_ in his direction, looks with narrowed eyes that said, ' _Don't interrupt us.'_ So he didn't. He sat back in his seat and stared pointedly out of the window, nostrils flared and his ears absorbing every word or uneven heartbeat between both of them.

“I didn't realize just how quick I was to jump the gun,” Stiles said. Unlike his younger self, he didn't raise his voice. It solidified. “You driving around wasn't the entire plan.”

“So what's the entire plan?”

“You're bait.”

At the words, younger Stiles and Derek both twisted around to face him.

“No,” Derek said. “No way.”

“Yeah! No way am I running around out here like a chicken with my head cut off just so you can get a drop on them to get that stupid knife. Why do you even need to go back? Move to Canada or something! Just go away.”

Stiles' jaw twitched. “I'm not abandoning my pack.”

Younger Stiles laughed, a short, unamused burst of noise. “My pack. Right.”

“Yes, right.”

“Our pack,” Derek echoed.

The moment the reality of what was said settled into his younger self's brain, Stiles popped open the Jeep's door and climbed out. Stiles shouted for him to wait, but he wasn't interested in waiting. They had to find the dagger. They had to find a witch. They had to get him back into his own time.

They set out the plan. Stiles would continue on the road towards the Hale house. It was a path he knew intimately, after all. (Though he glared at himself when he pointed it out.) Then the two of them would go around the back, together, to flank whatever Alphas were drawn towards the noise and steal the dagger. There were flaws in the plan as any, but being able to recognize those flaws and the ability to think on their feet separated them from two men who'd end up on the losing side.

Unlike Derek's fledgling pack, the Alphas were well balanced.  


It didn't take long for Derek and Stiles to notice someone barreling through the woods with no regard to guile in the slightest. In his werewolf form he seemed more bull than canine, broad shoulders snapping even the thickest of low-hanging branches, sprinting in the direction of the rumble of the teenager's engine.  


The latter two, however, wouldn't have been spotted had Derek not been there, scenting them out as they passed.  


One was another male, the same height as the brute that had just passed, but his body was lithe, his footsteps non-existent. The other was a female, with a long gait and tight jaw, taller than her packmate by a inch or two.  


“Damn,” Stiles muttered under his breath after Derek pointed out the two figures to him, the first long ahead. “You still haven't dealt with her?”  


“It's on my to-do list,” he replied, keeping his voice low, but not whispering. “We have to let them get a lead, or they'll--”  


“Hear us, yeah.” The older man crinkled his nose, squinting in the dim light of the moon. “Make me remind you one more time that I've been doing this for as long as you've been scowling, and I swear to God I will do this _myself_.” 

“No, you _won't_. Not after you got him involved.” Derek motioned for them to begin moving up. He chose to ignore the fact that _both_ of their footsteps were near silent. “We shouldn't have used him as bait. We cou--”  


“Could have found another way, shouldn't have gotten him involved, blah blah, deep-seated guilt, blah blah, brood, blah, can't deal with feelings.” Stiles raised his brows at the werewolf as they settled behind two trees, allowing the now collected group of alphas to gain another few feet. “Not interested in the reruns right now. You know it was the right call, you know he can handle it.”  


Derek's jaw twitched, but he said nothing.  


“Yeah, that's what I thought.” 

They moved in silence after that, surprisingly (or perhaps _un_ surprisingly) in sync for a couple of people who were bickering just moments ago. It wasn't as if Derek moved the same at 25 as he did when he was 40, but there was something familiar about it, enough that it made it simple for Stiles to adapt. To conform to longer, quicker strides.  


And when Derek shifted, Stiles felt it in the air. It was odd, seeing him as a werewolf instead of the coal-black wolf he'd gotten used to. It'd taken his lover four years to perfect the form and longer still to pass it on to his betas.  


Even still, that didn't change the hitch in his breath when he caught those glowing red eyes.  


His teenage self wasn't a killer yet. He didn't understand the primal surge, what it meant to command a pack of wolves eager to protect you. What it meant to protect them in return. What it was like to become a wolf without fur, without fangs or claws. 

Derek sensed the shift in him. Smelled it. Even as they closed in on their prey, on the waiting backs of rivals that should within all the laws of nature have his full attention, Derek watched him.  


This man that would be his mate (was his mate?) was coiled to strike, a wolfsbane-laced knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. His muscles were tense, teeth bared, lips twitching with aggression. Were silence not necessary for their success, Derek was sure he'd be growling.  


For some reason, it didn't baffle him. It didn't seem odd. Having this man here was right. Killing with him would be sweet. Protecting their pack, even one he didn't know, one waiting for him in some distant future, would be even sweeter.  


But then the cloying stench of fear invaded his nostrils and and when his attention snapped back to the alphas, protecting his _pack_ became a secondary objective. 

“Bait,” the more slender of the two men – twins – stated. His brother was busy keeping the teenaged Stiles on the leaf-ridden ground, pressing so hard his knees were sinking into the wet dirt. “Easy, Aiden. This is the one with a mouth on him. Don't scare away all his sarcasm yet.”  


“Oh, _Christ,_ is that _really_ what you're going with?” Stiles rolled his eyes. “I was going for--”  


The female cut in, succinct and commanding. “Aiden.”  


The werewolf responded by wrapping his hand around the teenager's throat, squeezing hard enough to make him whimper.  


And it was that moment that Derek tackled Aiden to the ground. He took Stiles down with him, true, but the brute let go of his throat and he was able to scramble away.  


The older version of himself was barely a pace or two behind and the moment he had a clear shot, he took it, hitting the thinner twin attempting to help his brother right in the bicep. Purposefully.  


There was a roar of pain, a scuffle in the mud as Aiden no longer attempted to bite down on Derek's jugular, but now was trying to wrench away from arms as strong as steel barring around his waist, one pressing under the apple of his throat when the rival werewolf twisted around. 

“E-Ethan,” Aiden barely choked out pasted the bone that was increasing the pressing more and more. “Let-- _LET ME_ _ **GO!**_ ”  


Stiles shot twice, this time directed at the twin Derek was losing his grip on – Aiden seemed determined to go to his wounded brother even if it meant taking Derek along with him. But the wolfsbane made it easier, made him feel the pain coursing through him, made him weaker.  


It was silent save for the strained groan of the brothers; Stiles began circling the small clearing as his younger counterpart slowly rose from his crouching position near Derek.  


“Did she just leave them?” The teenager asked, brows furrowing. “No, you guys don't do that. So she's waiting to kill me, then, right? Because I'm the weakest. Great.”  


Derek grunted as the werewolf in his arms continued to struggle; he shot a heated glare the boy's way. “Or because you won't _shut up_.” 

“God, you two have _no idea_ how fucking obvious you are.” A twig snapped and Stiles turned on a dime, shooting in the direction of the noise without hesitation. He heard the crack of wood. “Shit, she's fast.”  


Ethan chuckled as he propped himself up against a nearby boulder, right arm dragging beside him, completely unresponsive. “I'd appreciate it if you didn't grind my brother's trachea into mush. I have no idea how long that'd take to heal.”  


Derek simply growled and squeezed tighter.  


“Unless you want him to twist his head right off, you should keep your mouth shut, kid,” the older Stiles said. “He--”  


Before he could finish she was on him.  


She didn't growl. She didn't waste time with punches. Stiles immediately felt the warm stickiness of his own blood, scratches along his forearm, tearing into his leather jacket like it was made of parchment paper.  


But he wasn't just some human for her to prey on. Her next strike was blocked, and the low swipe of her free hand was dodged. Stiles twisted her arm, straining it in its socket, barrel of his pistol digging into her lower back. “I'm not—”  


There was a sharp, blinding pain on the top of his head (did she just fucking _kick him?_ ) and another cracking across his jaw from a solid, well-practiced punch. She came at him again and again, and he blocked. He countered and dodged and spat blood on the dead leaves gathering around their feet. 

Grinding Aiden's face into the dirt, Derek pressed his knee between the young werewolf's shoulders, whipping off his belt. He wrapped it around his wrists crudely and too-tight, but it was good enough to keep a wounded wolf from protecting his pack.  


By the time Derek had his fingers around the back of the female's neck, she was nearly tearing a hole in Stiles' throat.  


His attempt to throw her to the ground was foiled by a grace and balance he would have envied to he wasn't filled with the desire to kill her.  


The three of them stared at each other, circling, the twins and the younger Stiles watching on, expressions somewhere between awe and detached boredom. The female was bleeding, deep cuts from Stiles' knife refusing to bind, but Derek once again could only focus on the blood of his mate.  


It was a solid concept now. He was no longer questioning it. Derek had a mate to protect, to live a life with and the smell of his blood was sending him into a frenzy.  


And it was one Stiles fully anticipated. 

Derek's roar shook the branches; he attacked with everything he had, pacing away to crouch into a running start, ten sharp claws and fangs dripping with thick saliva extended out to sink into flesh. She twisted out of the way with ease, but Stiles was already attacking, dropping down to his knees as Derek jumped over him, slicing his blade across the back of her knee.  


For the first time that night, she let out a snarl, low and chilling enough to make Stiles' hairs stand on end, but Derek was already speeding around for another attack. 

He went in low this time, clawing at her ankles, made all the easier when she was pushed backwards by the masterful cuts coming her direction from a streamlined wolfsbane-laced military knife. They came at her from all directions, at all speeds.  


None of the three outside the battle could even contemplate finding a way into it. It'd be more hazardous to their own health than to their opponent's.  


Not a single one of them would have been able to tell you the amount of time that had passed when they finally came to a standstill. The female alpha was relentless and unyielding, refusing to go down even with blood dripping down her legs, even as they shook under the strain to keep herself upright.  


But she had the strength to hold Derek by the throat, claws digging in enough to bleed but not enough to tear anything vital. Not that it seemed to matter to him; he was gnashing his fangs, growling, eager for blood.  


He probably would have been more civil if Stiles didn't have the sharp edge of his knife pressing to the female alpha's throat, just the barest hint of pressure between it and giving Derek the bloodbath his wolf was looking for.

The female Alpha only flinched when Stiles applied just enough pressure to break the smallest finger of her other hand, both hers and his pushed into the small of her back. When she jerked forward in reaction, the first few layers of skin split beneath his blade. Derek snarled.

“Let go of him, and give me the dagger,” Stiles said, his voice low and dangerous as his thumb pressed against her ring finger. He pressed harder. It strained and strained. It strained. It snapped.

She took in a sharp breath, but this time she didn't flinch.

“What do you need a witch for, then?” she asked. Her breathing was heavy, not from physical exertion, but from the pain. From the cuts and the scrapes, from the contusions and the breaks. “What do I get out of this? I'm not letting go without terms. You break another finger, I break his neck.”

Derek's eyes – wide and red – moved to Stiles' face and then the Alpha's, all angular and nearly serene despite the broken bones. That was, until there was another faint snap and she howled, her claws digging farther into Derek's neck.

“ _Drop him_.” His fingers curled around her hand instead, tugging at it just enough to jostle her shoulders. “Or the wrist is next.”

“Some job—” She gasped. “—you're doing—” Another sharp breath. “—protecting your _mate_.”

Stiles jerked on her wrist, twisting but not breaking, and she cried out. Her grip on Derek's throat loosened, claws sliding out from the muscle, and he grabbed for her forearm. In all of a moment, she'd slipped, and they had her. All because of a single comment.

“I can smell him on you,” she pointed out, even bent over as she was, her dark blonde hair covering most of her face. “It's not new, either. It's an old smell. Like leather.”

He could feel Derek egging him on just as much as she was, but Stiles bit back the urge to break her arm.

It was a struggle with himself he did not relish.

“Give us the dagger, and you get those two back.”

The Alpha fought in their grip. She fought, and she lost. “What are you gonna do if I don't? Kill me, right? Because that accomplishes so much.”

“Kill them.” The words sent the Alpha on edge, and Stiles looked up and towards his teenaged self. “Come over here and find the dagger. It's on her somewhere. She wouldn't be fucking with us if it was hiding somewhere else.” The younger of the two scrambled onto his feet and in their direction, though his eagerness to help broke in two once he got close enough to look into her eyes, red as they were.

Red like Derek's, whose seemed even darker and wilder than usual.

Tilting her chin up, the Alpha looked directly at Stiles. He found himself caught in her stare, hands held in midair between the two of them. There was a threat in the set of her jaw, a promise in her scowl. She wasn't done with them. And suddenly the fact that his older self was leaving before wiping out this pack felt _wrong._

“It's in my jacket.” She jerked her head to the right, indicating where the dagger was strapped, and Stiles reached over to open it. His eyes remained trained on hers. Not moving, not blinking, not even glancing towards his hands. When he felt a sheath, his fingers walked up the length of the metal until he could remove the blade. 

And when he did, she lunged forward, snapping her jaws before she was yanked back half a foot. The rush of pain was fresh; all five fingers of her hand tingled. He'd broken her wrist anyway.

Stiles let go of her and reached for the holster inside his own worn leather jacket. He stepped back and away, but kept the gun on her head. From this distance, he could nail her right in her temple if she tried anything. The promise of that was enough to allow him to breathe.

“Take your twins and go,” he shouted, the threat gone from his voice and replaced by only desperation. The three of them were all hurt, but the bleeding wounds on Derek's throat was what threatened to steal his attention. With the twins already gone, the female Alpha glared at the both of them before limping as quickly as she could into the trees and away from the clearing.

When she was gone and he could no longer hear three clumsy gaits, both Stiles and the younger version of himself looked to Derek, though their reactions alone were vastly different.

Even without heightened senses, he could feel fear in the air. He could feel tension.

He could read it on Stiles' face as he stared at Derek.

And Derek – Derek was pawing at his neck, struggling to blot the blood but only serving to smear it, his breathing uneven and heavy, his fangs pressing past his lips, his eyes still glowing a dangerous, violent red. Stiles understood. He understood the fear. It was a familiar taste in his mouth, one he hadn't experienced since they'd wiped the Alpha pack out of the preserve. But that time had not yet arrived.

While he barely remembered what that terror felt like nestled in his quickly beating heart, he did know how to fix it. He knew how to calm the Alpha he'd known so well. So that's exactly what he did.

“Hey.”

Stepping forward towards Derek, he leaned down to look into his eyes. His words were rough. They were thick. But they were solid, too. “Hey, they're gone.” He took another long step, and the distance between them was all but gone. “There's nobody here but us.”

When he took another step, he was able to grab for Derek's arms with both hands, his pistol dropped onto the fallen leaves. He guided them down to his sides, away from the wounds, forcing him to look up and away from where the wolves had disappeared into the trees again. There was no threat, but their mere existence was a threat to a werewolf like him.

The pads of his thumbs dug into Derek's forearms, pressing small circles into the flesh. “We've got everything we need here. Now we go home, alright?” It never occurred to him that it wasn't his home. It wasn't a big house with wood paneling and extra wings for guests; it was a big house made of uneven floors and charred door frames. And this Derek wasn't his. “Go home and get some _sleep_. I need you healed up.”

Derek cocked his head, bare brows wrinkling in confusion as he began to shift back. He was drawn closer, just a step, but it was enough. Their bodies were inches apart at most, and even that seemed too much to the werewolf's addled mind.  


“Stiles?” His voice was soft, tightening at the edges due to the pain. There were claw marks on his thigh, broken ribs, on top of the wounds on his throat. Derek's speech only became threadier when he ran his hands over the man's forearms in return, one palm coming back red. “You're hurt.”  


He looked at the teenager, briefly, confused further still at how far away he was, how cautious he was. Derek's swallowed so hard it was audible. “Did I...? I haven't-- haven't blacked out like that in years. Please tell me I didn't-- to _either_ of you.” 

“No, just the Alphas,” Stiles told him, dipping his chin down to capture his eyes again. “We'll be fine. He'll just be sore. Might take me a little while, though.” He chuckled quietly, lines forming around his eyes and through his forehead; the laugh, though quiet, hurt. “Not really able to bounce bake like I used to, but I'll be fine. Right now, all we need is to get home.”

He glanced in the teenager's direction, swallowing hard when he realized how utterly baffled and upset he looked. 

“So now all we need is to find a witch, right? That's what Deaton said. Should be fun.”

“We already have a witch.” Stiles turned his attention back to Derek, his hands sliding up to his shoulders and resting there. “Keep that dagger with you until you get back to the clinic. Then call Lydia, tell her to meet us at the house tomorrow.”

The Stileses were bickering again, going back and forth about the legitimacy of Lydia having magic in her veins, but Derek was still very much out of it. It hurt to breathe, let alone talk. So he watched.  


He looked at both of them, first the younger more often, then he began to linger on the elder. The man who had been sent back to be punished. To be manipulated, twisted and tortured every day he was stuck in this time. Derek knew what he felt for the Stiles of now, he had known for quite a long time, despite his refusal to pursue anything.  


It meant opening up, it meant tearing down walls, it meant admitting he trusted him. All of it was too much. He didn't want to see the look on Stiles' face when he learned the blood of Derek's family was on his own hands. He didn't want to tell anyone that losing Laura was like losing an arm, that having Peter walk around as a dried up husk of his former vibrant self was more painful than seeing him in a coma.  


But with this Stiles from the future, the bond was there. It was unspoken, intense and deep. He was his mate. It was in his eyes, his mannerisms, and in the way he spoke to him. He was a human without fear of an Alpha nearly out of control. It was the teenager that was frightened of him, who needed protecting. And perhaps now Derek could do that.  


This Stiles knew him through and through. He understood the hunt and the kill, the pack and the mentality behind it. There would be no desperate pleas of understanding, no barriers, no awkward conversations about what it means to be a mate. No fear of rejection or of pity.  


He looked to the teenager again. Their eyes met briefly, only due to Stiles quickly turning away and leaving to find his Jeep a little ways off. The sickeningly sweet scent of fear wafted from his direction.  


It wasn't the first time Derek had felt ashamed of himself.  


The older man walked into his line of sight; the same honey-brown eyes he had just seen widen were now soft, warm and inviting.  


It ached, the way his breathing quickened. It ached to walk, to join Stiles as they left toward the direction of the Hale home as naturally as breathing.  


But there was no fear.  


Derek was smelling something he hadn't in a very long time. 


	6. Chapter 6

Four days later, Stiles was still sore.

He'd forgotten, after so many years of being in charge with Derek and then simply in charge, how difficult being outnumbered proved to be, how difficult fighting with one relatively untrained werewolf could be. And while he would never explain it to Derek with those exact words, that's what Derek was – a young, relatively untrained werewolf.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Stiles took the staircase up to the second floor. The house itself was still in pieces – some missing, some barely hanging on – but Derek's generator ran a heater to keep most of the rooms warm enough to be comfortable. 

The feeling of old wood beneath his feet was one he remembered clearly. Though his memories were disjointed and weathered by time, he could recall bits and pieces. Making as little noise as possible to sneak a glass of milk from the fridge without waking Derek up. Picking a splinter out of his heel. Taking the stairs slowly as he could, wary of a creak.

It was warmer then, though he suspected that was due to some emotional tilt at the time.

Once inside, Stiles shed his jacket and folded it over the back of the couch, and once he was on the second floor, he peeled off his shirt. Perspiration dampened the back, making him even colder after his run, so his first move was to toss it on the air mattress Stiles let him borrow until it dried.

The air was a mix of warmth and sharp winter air, a reminder that even the roof wasn't quite complete again yet, but Stiles ignored the chill in favor of running his callused hands over the skin of his lower back.

Running to clear his head was a pain when it took five minutes to get off of the mattress on the floor, but he needed to get his blood pumping. He needed to think. Vegetating in the Hale house wouldn't help; he needed fresh air, and he needed to talk to Lydia.

That conversation had been interesting. Her lessons with Deaton were progressing at least ten times quicker than the vet expected, though Stiles wasn't surprised in the least bit, not with Lydia being Lydia. It was good to hear her voice again, too. After the incident with Derek, she'd become even more scarce, choosing to bury herself in her work rather than deal with a new pack of werewolves, another enemy at the end of a long list. She sounded lighter. It made sense.

Twisting at his torso, Stiles planted his hands on his waist and bent this way and that, stretching his burning muscles and letting out a slow breath. He needed to cool down, get in the right head space. And he needed a shirt.

He'd only just begun rifling through the small pile of dark cotton near the bed when he heard a creak behind him.

“Did you want--”

Derek came to a dead stop at the entryway of Stiles' room - one of the two relatively undamaged sections on the upper floor. If he didn't have the keen sight that came along with his birthright, he probably would have taken in the view. Where the face at least was reminiscent of the teenager he knew, the body wasn't. He was well-muscled, thicker, though there was still a gangliness to his limbs that betrayed how stealthy he could be.

But none of those things distracted Derek like the multitude of scars across Stiles' skin did.

“Sorry,” he murmured, though he didn't turn away, or even look at into his eyes. “I just figured you were hungry by now.” 

Dropping the shirt he made a grab for, Stiles straightened his back and turned around. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, I'm starving, actually.” He paused, brows flattening as he watched Derek's face. Knowing that look, it only took him a moment to decipher the meaning behind the sudden cloudiness in his expression. He bent again and grabbed for a shirt before tugging it on. Still, there was something tense in the air, even dressed, and that drove him to speak. “Got anything here? Or are we making a takeout run?”

“Take out.” 

Derek walked closer, thick brows furrowed over his nose as the floorboards creaked again under his boots. He didn't stop until he was standing a foot away. “... You've been in a lot of fights,” he murmured, still looking as if he didn't fully comprehend what he had just seen. “I didn't realize it was that bad.” 

“No.” Stiles lifted an index finger to correct him. Distractions were difficult with Derek; they always were. He knew he had only a ten percent chance of this actually working. “I've won a lot of fights. You should've seen the other guys.”

Derek might've let it slide if he didn't suddenly have Stiles' wrist very close to his face.

It was rare to ever see the man out of the jacket he wore, never giving him the chance to look very closely at his arms. He had learned it was more than just old leather. It was a birthday gift from Derek when Stiles graduated college, seeing as he had loaned his to his boyfriend when he left. Stiles' sense of smell wasn't as well formed as Derek, but it was still a comfort, and Derek felt better knowing he had it for those nights he couldn't visit. As the years wore it down, Stiles opted to patch it back together with bits of Derek's own ruined jackets.

Derek's hands lifted, one gripping Stiles' arm and twisting it so the bottom of his wrist faced the ceiling, the other cradling his hand, thumbing over an ugly scar on his wrist, thick and ragged and close to the heel of his palm.

“You've also been captured,” he said in a steady voice that belied the tension in his grip that only loosened when he grabbed for his other hand. “Restrained.” The apple of his throat bobbed in a thick swallow as he slowly lifted his gaze to meet Stiles'. “Were you tortured, too?” 

“A few times.” Stiles' jaw twitched as he twisted his hands away from Derek's. “Look, I'm hungry, you're hungry, and I don't really feel up to story time right now, alright? Can we not do this?”

There was nothing Stiles hated more than failing to protect himself. Having Derek highlight those times when he slipped, when he got hurt and couldn't heal like everyone else, hurt in a way he couldn't quite describe, not an ache, but a sear. “Yes, I was tortured. Yes, I got hurt a few times. I even got shot by a witch once. Didn't know witches carried guns, much less shotguns, but showing you those scars would mean taking off my pants. And that would be awkward.”

“No. You're going to be gone in a few days. Out of my life. I need to--” Derek took a sharp breath in and out of his nose, hiding a twitch of his lower lip behind a clenching jaw. “I got you involved in this. I never wanted to. This can't happen.” 

“Well, it's going to.” Stiles pressed past him, moving quickly down the stairs to get his jacket. The feeling of being exposed was an unpleasant one. He swallowed a few times in quick repetition, hoping to ease his suddenly dry throat as he turned off of the stairwell and into the living room. When he reached the couch, he extended a hand, and at the first brush of his fingertips over worn leather, he felt better. Slightly. He knew Derek was still on his tail. 

Pulling the jacket on, he looked at Derek again as the younger man stepped towards him, this time with narrowed eyes. “You didn't get me involved in this. I got me involved in this. It was my choice, and you're not going to change my mind. Not me now, not me then.”

“Because I was weak!” Derek's lip curled as leaned in, voice tight. “Because I was an idiot who let you in. And you keep doing it. It doesn't matter if you're sixteen or thirty-three, you're always finding some way in and I won't do it. Not this time.”

The werewolf shrunk back now, shoulders curling in as he shuffled a step or two away from him, averting his eyes. “I'm not going to be responsible for this again, for--” He couldn't say it. He knew the man in front of him was aware of everything. Every detail. Of Kate, of the fire, of the finding the ring he'd given her in the smoldering remains of his house. But he hadn't come to terms with it yet, not at this age.

“All you do is confuse me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “And now there's an older you who does the exact thing, only worse. I won't watch this happen. I can stop it. I can keep you safe from this. Safer, at least.” 

“Right, and take away all the good in both of our lives. Excellent plan.” Stiles tugged at the rough line of the zipper on the inside of his jacket, turning around to face the opposite wall, only to end up facing him again. Staying still was not an option. Planting his feet in the middle of the room was not an option. There was too much to say, too much to share, too much to show him, even if he wanted nothing more than to leave.

He couldn't leave. There was too much at stake.

“Newsflash, Derek. This--” He ran his hands over his arms, fingers pulling at the sleeves until he could see the scars from the handcuffs again. “This is nothing. What we had was worth it. And I swear to God, if you even think about taking that away from me...”

“You'll what?” Derek closed in again, closer than before, though he made no physical contact. His eyes didn't flick away from Stiles' for even a second. “You'll what, Stiles? You were sent here to get me to submit to the Nagual. Did you ever think that we wouldn't even be a blip on their radar if we never got together? Maybe, just maybe, this,” he gestured between them, poking Stiles in the chest, “shouldn't happen.” 

The moment Derek's index pressed into his chest, Stiles reacted. His hand snapped up to grab his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, and he forced it away. But even then, even watching Derek's expression falter and the surprise shine through his eyes, he didn't let go. He gripped tighter.

“Don't.”

They were close, but even with a short distance between them, Derek couldn't tell whether the wetness in Stiles' eyes was sadness or anger. The flare of his nostrils proved it to be the latter, but his mouth was turned downward in a twist and that spoke volumes, as well.

“I can't do anything. It's your decision.” His voice broke in two. He recovered quickly, but the damage was already done. He loosened his grip. “But you have no idea what you'd be giving up.”

Derek shut his eyes and breathed in. Even taking in air through his mouth wasn't enough to keep his eyes from glassing over behind his eyelids. Stiles' scent was still there. He could taste it, and that brought him in closer.

He could feel himself leaning in, and he didn't need super senses to feel Stiles' hesitance. Derek could smell fear – it wasn't sharp, but it was there, hidden under the aroma of desperation, and a multitude of other things that he recognized all too well.

It wasn't until their noses brushed that Derek stopped, their chests bumping together with every deep breath. He finally opened his eyes, the overcast light making their dampness all that much more noticeable.

“I know exactly what I'm giving up.” The tears welled, but they didn't fall. It was as if they all found their way directly into the werewolf's voice, roughening the edges until he was barely audible. “Don't you dare try to tell me otherwise.” 

“You don't.” Stiles' voice was leaden, his fingers a mere shadow of his previous grip on Derek's wrist. “You have no idea. That's what I'm trying to tell you.” His throat dried again, and this time, nothing could wet it. “I can't even count the times you told me, 'I've never felt this way about anyone.' You were surprised. You didn't know you could love anyone as much as you loved me. So there's no way you can know it now. But if you want to give up finding out just because of a few scrapes, fine.”

“Right. No way. No possible way I could feel that bond.” His free hand clenched at his side. “Do you have any idea what this is like for me? Do you think I want this? To throw away a relationship, any relationship?”

Derek let his other hand fall to his side as well, Stiles' following suit. Except they lingered close, not entangling fingers or touching palms, but touching. Barely. “I'm in love with you,” he murmured, stretching out his index finger to skate over the man's knuckles. “But I-- I love him more. You aren't... you aren't my Stiles. And I won't let him hurt the way you have. I can barely stand to see it in you.” 

The words – all of them, every word split from Derek's lips – hurt. He never thought he'd hear the way his tongue wrapped around the word love, quiet and husky and warm in his ears, no matter the chill that followed at, 'But I love him more.' Licking at his lips, Stiles stared at him, his eyes sad.

“I am,” Stiles replied, the words skittering out of his lungs on a sigh. “I am your Stiles. I'm your Stiles fifteen years from now. No matter what happens, this is who I'm supposed to be.”

“With me. This is who you are with me.” Derek shook his head, fingers curling around Stiles' arms. He briefly bumped their foreheads together before pushing him away. “And you're incredible. And I was lucky to have you. But I'm not going to do this to you again.”

Derek lifted his hand to Stiles' chest, rubbing over where he knew deep claw scars hid beneath the cotton with his thumb. “This is for the best. And not just for us.” 

“No.”

Stiles spat out the word, no matter the pull Derek had on him. He wanted nothing more than to feel the weight of his hand and the warmth of his body so close, but there was a cost to accepting Derek's plans. He didn't have enough strength to pay it.

“You're not doing anything to me again!” Stiles pushed Derek's hand away from his chest and stepped away, moving just out of arm's reach. “Don't you get it? You do this, you erase everything we had!”

Digging the rough heel of his palm into one of his eyes, Stiles shook his head. “You don't get to do this to me, Derek. I've already lived it and I'm here and I survived. And now you're standing here telling me that you don't want this for me? Now that I've already had it? No! You. Don't. Get. To do that. I came back to tell you to give the Nagual what they want, not to break things off with me because you don't – because you don't think I can handle it or because you just don't want me to. That's not how this works!”

“I don't care how it works. I don't.” Derek's voice was soft by comparison. “I've had you here for nearly a week. I've seen every twitch. I've heard the breaks in your voice. I've smelt the pain. In a house that reeks of it, no less.”

“Survival isn't enough, not for you. When I asked you where you'd be left when you went back, all you had to say was without a mate and dead in a few years.” Derek shook his head, lifting a hand in dismissal and moving toward the door. “I'm done talking.” 

“Well, I'm not.” 

Stiles strode forward, more than matching him for pace. When he got close enough, he grabbed Derek's shoulder and spun him around. His heart ached at the thought of not living a life with Derek, but it was anger in his eyes now. “I'm sick of your condescending shit, Derek. The pain – it isn't because of all I've gone through. It's because I'm here. It's because I've had to spend six nights in a house with the man I was going to marry, the one who was dead for two years before I got here. That's why I'm hurting.” 

His fingers dug harder into Derek's shoulder. “And I don't care if you think you're doing me a favor. You're not. You're taking the best thing in my life from me. That's the opposite of a fucking favor.”

Derek's chin trembled, a tear falling before he could blink it back, darkening his grey, long-sleeved shirt. He knew exactly why Stiles was hurting. Why was it so hard to understand that he wanted to limit the pain and death in the life of the person he loved?

“Let--” He lost his words; it took him a few shaky breaths to find them again. “Let me go. I won't talk to him, just get-- get your hand off me.” 

Stiles let go immediately, taking a step back before turning on his heel. He rubbed at his eyes again. This time, his palms came away damp. This was the last thing he wanted. Hurting Derek, yelling at Derek, fighting with Derek – they were all things he never wanted to do again, and yet they happened. They happened, and they didn't stop until he was forced to realize exactly what he was doing.

He opened his mouth to say something, but found he had nothing to add. No apology came to his tongue. He knew he had nothing to apologize for. So instead of speaking, he scrubbed a hand over his mouth and kept his back turned, hoping beyond reason that the younger man at his back would understand what he needed despite having know way to know.

“I had to ID their remains.”

When Stiles glanced at him over his shoulder, Derek just shook his head, shrugging. “Maybe I told you already. After the fire... Laura, she made me wait outside the morgue. She didn't want me to see anymore than I already had.” As Derek spoke, he seemed almost displaced, in some sort of trance that made his voice soft and his eyes sad, staring at the back of Stiles' head and eventually the front of it, but not really registering him. “But she couldn't distinguish some of them. Eventually I had to go in to see if I could help. She wasn't sure Dad was Dad, and I-- I had to ID a couple of my cousins. The kids. I spent more time with them than she--”

Whatever air he had in his lungs had been kicked out of him by some invisible force. Derek wasn't going to rule out some angry ghost of his family. All he knew was that he couldn't breathe and Stiles was there, already moving forward despite everything, and Derek just met him half way.

Curling his arms around Stiles' waist, Derek buried his face into his neck, pressing his nose to the warm skin, breathing in whenever his panic attack would allow it, letting his mind and body focus on the man holding on to him. On the scent, on the heartbeat, on the breathing. On every last mannerism that worked to somehow comfort him.

It took several minutes for the attack to pass, and when he pulled back to speak, his voice was thready at best. “My point was, I know it never goes away. I can't-- I can't do that to you.” Derek moved his hand from Stiles' back to his cheek, silently begging him to listen, to understand. “If I don't do something, this is all going to repeat. This way you'd find someone else, you'd have your own family. My pack will have no choice but to stay small.” 

“Derek.” 

Stiles' voice was soft, a 180 degree shift from what it had been moments ago. That in itself was no surprise; he'd spent years on a slow trickle of information, on stories he thought he'd never hear and a man who finally learned how to stop keeping things pent up. “I don't wanna find someone else. I already had someone. I had a family, too. Bigger than I would've gotten on my own.” His throat tightened, but he kept on. Talking now was more important than comfort. “This is the life I wanted. It's the one I chose, just like it chose me. Alright?“

Derek just stared at him, hazel eyes shaking as they flicked over Stiles' face. There were scars there, too. Nothing major. One above his left eyebrow and one on the right side of his jaw, leaving the slightest bald patch in his stubble. He could tell his nose had been broken at least once. It hurt to know someone or something had injured him, just like it had when he found out Stiles had been brutally beaten by Gerard.

Both of them had suffered because of his family. For the Stiles he knew, it would only get worse. Even if they never loved each other, he'd still suffer.

But maybe he was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe this man didn't need to go back to his own time. Maybe he could love Stiles without hurting him. After all, the one from the future knew everything. Every skeleton lurking in his closet, every story. He knew birthdays, he knew traditions... He knew Derek, through and through.

Derek didn't bother asking with words. His fingers toyed along the edge of Stiles' jaw as he closed the gap between them and kissed his upper lip, unmoving in every way, even holding his breath until he felt the other man return the motion, even if it was out of muscle memory alone at first. 

A breath stuttered in Stiles' chest, but he returned the kiss without hesitation, kissing softer lips and breathing in a scent different and yet familiar, like the smell that came with someone from a dream. It was fresh and real and mended a piece of him in only a moment. But there was so much still broken, so much waiting for sutures Derek didn't have, and those parts of him urged him to stop and pull away. So he did.

His hands moved to Derek's arms, resting high on his biceps, but he didn't push him away. He looked at him, his eyes impossibly soft and warm in a way only Stiles' eyes could be.

“What about... me? What about Stiles?” He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth. When he tasted Derek, he let it go again. “You have to fix it. If you don't, nothing will ever happen. I can't – I can't go back not knowing what I'm going back to.”

Derek was silent for a few moments, staring into those honey-brown eyes that always caught him off guard. He leaned in, rubbing the side of his nose against Stiles'.

“Then don't,” he murmured. “Don't leave.” 

A pathetic whisper of Derek's name caught in Stiles' throat before he leaned in to kiss him again, drawn by his voice and the look on his face, like there was potential in what he asked of him. But there wasn't. There were rules; he was only there for one reason.

“You know I have to,” he said, his words hinging on a sigh. “I can't just... take this from myself. It might not make sense to you now, but I needed you just as much as you needed me.”

"I won't abandon him." Derek sealed the promise with another kiss. And then another. He couldn't help himself, as starved as he was for physical contact. And for Stiles. 

This entire thing wasn't exactly what Derek wanted. He missed the smoothness of the teenager's face, the softness of his hands, the laughter he had that wasn't laced by bitterness. But he did love this man in his arms, as well. Differently. It was as if he had the memories of someone else, vague and blurred, but he could still feel it. The way his wolf listened to him without question, how Derek felt as if he could sense every cell in the older Stiles' body.

It was all too tempting, and so much easier.

“But you could stay. Maybe not forever, but there must be a duration on the spell.” Derek thumbed over the scar on his jaw, corner of his mouth twitching in a small, searching smile. “You want to.” 

There were no words to explain how much Stiles wanted to stay. If it meant living another lifetime with Derek, he would give anything. That sort of chance was one he never anticipated he would have. He never thought he would see him or hear his voice. He never thought he would kiss him. There was an end to their story already, a final page, a life that all but ended two years before. 

This wasn't a book easily open and revised. No matter how badly he wanted to have Derek again, some things were better off left as they were.

Taking in a deep breath, Stiles shook his head slowly. “You have no idea how much,” he replied, leaning into Derek's hand. “But I can't. I need to go back. Our pack needs me. And I need you. I need you to be with me now, not me in fifteen years. You need me, too.”

Derek's jaw tightened, but he nodded. “I'm sorry,” he said, thick brows slanting upward. “That wasn't fair.” Still, he didn't move away. He couldn't. “But you're going back in four days. Maybe three considering this is Lydia. Can't we...” He sighed heavily. “Let me be with you. Just for now.” His other hand squeezed Stiles' bicep. “But you're right. I need him. And maybe he needs me.” Derek paused to kiss him, a short peck that left him lingering close. “But you need this. And I need to give it to you. Just... stay with me later tonight. Let me give you that much.” His lips pursed once more. “Please.” 

Stiles nodded as his hand slid up to press against the back of Derek's neck, guiding him forward until their foreheads met again. He'd almost forgotten how warm he was. He remembered scent and taste and his rough palms, but both his warmth and the memory of it had faded since. If anything, it was comforting, not a painful reminder.

“I'll stay, but just for sleep.” The corner of his mouth hitched upwards. “If you can keep your hands to yourself.”

“Just for sleep,” Derek echoed, shutting his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath through his nose. “I think you know that's all I could handle.” 

Stiles chuckled. The sound was thick, but not forced. 

He pulled Derek in closer, one arm curled around his neck and the other around his waist, his lips brushing over his cheek. “I don't know about that.” Stiles shut his eyes; he breathed in. “I distinctly remember you handling yourself really well. Not getting into that right now, though.”

“I'm not sure I could handle getting tips on how to improve my first time with you from an older you.” Derek kissed his cheek in return. “Sounds like that'd break some sort of rule.” 

At that, Stiles' chuckle became a laugh. “Don't worry about it. For a virgin, I'm boy scout levels of prepared.”

Derek's brow arched, but he decided that was a road best left unexplored. For now. “Right. Let's go get some food before you ruin the surprise.”

Stiles nodded, and they made their way out of the living room, only to have Derek stop them both, turning around, head tilted off to the side slightly. “Are we... I said some things I shouldn't have. We're okay?” 

“Yeah.” 

Stiles reached out, a long, curved finger brushing against Derek's palm before his entire hand took over. He gave Derek's hand a squeeze before letting go. “Yeah, we're okay.” Pausing, he moved forward, passing him and stepping into the entryway. “But, I mean, an extra order of curly fries would build a few bridges.”

Derek could only smile at the back of Stiles' head as they made their way towards the front door.

“Don't worry. I've already learned that lesson.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I need to talk to you both before we start.”

Derek and the present day Stiles turned their heads toward the small, strawberry-blonde girl who was already walking out toward the forest, expecting them to follow.

“So, bets on one of us having to be a sacrifice?” Stiles watched the older man out of the corner of his eye, slowing his pace. He couldn't help but smile when he saw Derek linger to match it. “Do you think witches need virgin blood, or is that a demon thing?”

The werewolf sighed. “We'll both probably need to give blood for the spell.”

Stiles shuddered. “Great.”

As they closed in on Lydia, she turned sharply, arms crossed under her breasts, tapping her index finger on her elbow.

“I'm going to make this as quick as I can,” she said, tilting her head to the side as she regarded the duo, though her focus was more on Derek. “This spell that was cast on Stiles' more rugged counterpart was less of a time travel spell and more of an extraordinarily powerful message. From what I gathered, this is something only cast when there is no other way around a situation. My educated guess?” Lydia inclined her head toward Derek. “They realized they made a mistake killing you.”

“He gave me the impression our—” Derek didn't stop himself in time to keep the inaccurate possessive pronoun from slipping out. He could feel the gazes from the both – one curious and judgmental, the other confused and perhaps a little hurt.

“... His,” he continued. “His pack had wiped out at least three smaller strike units the Nagual sent. At least five per pack, not counting supply depots and a base. Of course they want a do over.”

Lydia stepped forward, pointing at Derek, then at Stiles. “You two? Are what they want. More than the pack you build, more than a foothold in California, they want the two of you under their thumb. This spell is the ultimate sort of manipulation outside of flat out mind control.”

“I don't get it.” Stiles gestured toward his older self, Dr. Deaton, and Ms. Morrell off in the distance. “Isn't this entire thing just him sending an over-complicated note? 'Dear Derek, please bend over for some crazy, South American witch-wolves when you get the chance. Hugs and kisses.'”

“Obviously there's more to it.” The other man looked at Stiles, chin tilting down and eyebrows raised. “'Hugs and kisses?'”

Before Stiles could answer, Lydia cut in. “You won't remember him. No one here but me will.”

Derek's brow furrowed. His heart rate was climbing; the wolf bristling just under the surface of his skin wanted to howl at the thought even as his human side saw it as something of a blessing. Derek wanted to be with the teenager standing next to him, trying not to look as concerned as he really was.

“Everything?” the werewolf asked.

She nodded. “The whole point is for the subject of the spell to have the opportunity to cement a bond with whoever the message is for. No matter how reluctant, they're still human. Sending Stiles back in time to speak to his dead mate before he had ever even hooked up with him was a masterstroke.”

“But I won't remember anything.”

“No, not even the message, not until the moment it becomes relevant.” Lydia slid her hands into the pockets of her peacoat, wrapping it tight around herself. “It'll be instinct, a gut feeling based on the emotions that have been engrained in you over the past few days.”

“Derek's not going to submit to them,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, how stupid are they? His skull is made of, like, adamantium. On top of being _the_ quintessential stubborn jackass.”

Derek stared at the teenaged boy, the slight quirk of his eyebrow the only indication he was more amused than annoyed.

“Hey, I'll take it back the day you start admitting you're wrong nine times out of ten.”

The werewolf allowed himself a smile, but said nothing, attempting to quash the rush of warmth that followed when he heard Stiles' heart rate rise.

“He's right,” Derek murmured, walking forward until he was close enough to put a hand on Lydia's back. “Give us a few minutes.”

Lydia nodded. “A few minutes.”

The two that remained watched as she head toward the clearing near the Hale estate, runes already drawn in the loose dirt. The older Stiles grinned at her approach and treated her like an old friend; he seemed at ease with her.

“Okay, _maybe_ it's more like seven out of ten,” Stiles said, smacking Derek's bicep with the back of his hand. “But I was exaggerating to make a point.”

Derek waved his hand dismissively. “I want to talk to you. It's apparently pointless, but... I want to clear one thing up before we do this.”

“Yeah, alright.” Stiles shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and toed at the loose dirt beneath his feet with the front of his shoe. He looked between Derek and Lydia and older Stiles and the others gathered, his shoulders rising and falling with a sigh. “So what is it? If it's pointless now, it must be about him, right?”

“I don't know.” Derek sighed heavily, running a hand over his hair. “I don't know if we'll lose everything or just the parts with him in it.” He moved closer, still a good foot away and not reaching out. “I know how it's looked since he got here. And that we haven't really talked. But having him here has...”  


Swallowing thickly, Derek averted his gaze, staring out into the woods. “I... care about you.” 

“Wait... is that possible?”

When Derek looked at him, eyes narrowed, Stiles shook his head. “I didn't mean that. I meant is it possible that we might forget everything? Even, like... stuff that happened before he got here? Because I'd really like to keep all of that intact.” There was an edge of desperation in his voice, one he quickly snuffed out as he curved his shoulders in, staring at the dirt the sole of his shoe packed more tightly. “Like... birthdays and anniversaries and all that stuff. Not just the kiss.”

He glanced up at him again. The corners of his mouth tugged downward in a frown. “But I really don't wanna forget that, either. I really liked it, even if you were a total jerk to me afterwords.”

“I meant this. Everything since he got here, even if it didn't involve him. Your other memories should be fine.”  


Derek dipped his head down the inch it took him to become eye level. “I was a jerk because I didn't want you near me. And I didn't apologize for it because I smelled how scared you were in the preserve that night.” He took a breath, voice softening further as he continued. “That's the last thing I want. And it was... easier to just run away.” 

“If I don't remember, I should be fine.” Stiles rolled into a shrug, moving slowly in the direction of the clearing. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Derek was following him; he was. “So I'm not that guy yet. I can't bring you back, and I got scared. You freaked me out.”

Stiles exhaled heavily, thumbs digging into the fabric of his jeans. “That doesn't mean I can't learn how to deal.”

“What if I don't want you to?” When Stiles stopped and turned to looked at him, Derek halted as well, pressing his lips together in a thin line. “He went through a lot, Stiles. He's not your destiny. You don't _have_ to become him.” 

“Derek.” Stiles' voice was surprisingly firm. It felt foreign even in his mouth. “I know what Stilinski laugh lines look like. That guy's life wasn't _that_ bad.”

“He also has scars from torture,” Derek snapped back, though he relaxed and sighed a moment later. “Nevermind. Once this is over there's only going to be one thing I'm focused on, and it won't have anything to do with keeping you safe.” 

Stiles' brows flattened, his lips parting slightly in surprise. “So you say you don't want to deal with me because of how much being a part of your pack hurt him, and now you're acting like you don't even care one way or another whether I get hurt or not.” Stepping forward, he brought them closer together, but the change in position wasn't a slow or even a non-threatening one. “You really need to figure out what's going on here. Because I have, but I can't do any of this by myself.”

“Of course I _care_. Don't put words--” Derek paused, mulling over what he said before rolling his eyes at himself. “I didn't mean it like that. I _meant_ that it was a struggle not to follow you after you left. I _meant_ I've been thinking about breaking every rule I've set for myself ever since that kiss.” He moved forward, too, shoulders tense and jaw twitching. “I _don't_ want you hurt, Stiles, that's why I don't want you with me. You know me, you know everyone around me gets hurt. You're involved with this because of _my_ family, my kind.”  


Derek took in a sharp breath through his nose, stepping back after the flash of anger had subsided. “You... won't be alone, Stiles. But don't ever question how much I want to keep you alive. Safe.” 

“Well, newsflash, Derek, I don't exactly put my well-being ahead of everyone else.” Stiles waved both of his hands mid-air to exaggerate his point. Once he stopped speaking, those fingers scrubbed over his buzzcut before letting out a frustrated noise. “I don't care what happens, alright? I'm doing this because I want to. Because I wanna help keep my dad and my friends safe. Because _I_ wanna be close to you. This isn't just your decision.”

“I have _direct_ experience with your lack of survival instincts. Exactly why I—”  


Derek didn't bother finishing the sentence. He didn't want to argue. He wanted to just accept this. To let it happen, to have Stiles in his arms again and kiss him without frustration or anger or anything else coming between them.  


“I'm _not_ conceding,” he muttered as he began walking again, pausing only once to allow Stiles to catch up to him. “This argument is going on hold until neither of us remember it.” 

“Oh, that's just great. 'Let's just ignore the problem until we can't remember it in the first place.'” 

Stiles huffed and tugged his hoodie tighter around himself. “That seems fair. It's not like you actually let me argue with you anyway. Not without being totally condescending.”

“It won't be a _problem_ then. I won't even know the problem exists.” Derek turned to look at him, eyes dropping to his sneakers rustling the damp leaves. “That way we can just go back to you being invasive and pushy. You know, manageable issues.” 

“Instead of me being aware of how fast you'd drop me if someone came along who knew you better than I did,” Stiles said, his voice impossibly light. “Yeah, sounds manageable.”

Derek stopped dead in his tracks.  


Grabbing for Stiles' wrist, he forced him to stop, turning the teenager to face him, letting go the second they made eye contact.  


“I've spent the last week having to separate myself from my wolf,” Derek explained slowly. Not as if Stiles didn't understand, but to keep his voice even. To keep it from trembling. “I've had to distance myself from something that's been a part of me since _birth_ because my wolf can feel the bond we made. One we forged for _fifteen fucking years._ I can't _control_ that.”  


His hazel eyes were glassy, but nothing could stop the outpour of emotions now. “I'm in love with _you_. I loved you before he showed up and I love you even more _now_ , and not because I think you'll turn out like him.”  


Derek's voice began to break, pitching high and almost cutting out entirely in places. “I want you f-ar away from me because-- because I never want to see you as hurt and as bitter as that man is. I never want you to be _tortured_ to get to me. I don't want you to be a target because I refuse to give you the bite.”  


“It's not about knowing me better.” He took a deep breath. “It's about giving me the option to never talk about the things I've done. I'm not going to apologize to you for finding that appealing, because if I could blot it all out, I _would_.”  


It was that very last set of words that forced a tear to fall. It didn't roll down his face, instead landing somewhere on the forest floor. He pulled back, slow and tired, looking as if he'd aged twenty years in the few minutes it took to get the words out.  


“If I could just _drop you_ , Stiles, our lives would be much easier.” 

Stiles lifted a hand to his face, rubbing his sleeve so hard into his eye the skin was rubbed raw when he pulled away. “Nothing's easy. Nothing's been easy for over a year now, and I just want you to _get_ that.” His throat was tight, so tight he worried it might snap his voice in half. But there was so much he needed to say in the aftermath of Derek's speech. “If I was scared of difficult stuff, I would've packed up and left town. I wouldn't have stuck around. I definitely wouldn't have kissed you.”

He inhaled deeply enough to draw his shoulders back, sucking on his bottom lip as he exhaled through his nose. Leaves crunched under his shoes as he moved closer to Derek, the arm with the damp sleeve reaching out until his fingers rested on his forearm. “So can we stop with the, 'I just want to protect you,' crap. Because I don't need that from anybody, especially not from you.

“Because I love you, too. I don't care if it's not easy.”

Derek reached out in kind, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the soft, red skin under Stiles' eye.  


“I can't stop it,” he murmured. “I'm always going to need to protect you.”  


There was a pause, but Stiles didn't speak. He'd learned, slowly but surely, when Derek had something more on his mind, when he was sorting through what he wanted to say. There was a tension in his face, a tightness of his body that spoke volumes.  


The werewolf dropped his gaze only to return it a second later, fingers curling behind the teenager's ear.  


“I need you to protect me, too.” 

“I'm trying,” Stiles replied as his fingers pressed into the muscle of Derek's forearm, a hopefully reassuring gesture. “But you've got to trust me, and you've got to _let_ me. I'm not any more important than you are, alright? And...” 

He sighed. The sound was shaky at best. “And I just realized we're not gonna remember _any_ of this.” His brow furrowed. “And you just told me you _loved_ me. Are you fucking kidding me? Did I do something to piss God off?”

The chuckle that left the older of the two was rough and wet, but genuine. “Probably.” He paused just long enough to brush his lips against the corner of Stiles' mouth. “But I'll tell you again sometime.” 

“Can sometime be now?” Another pause, and another chuckle. This one was quieter. “Just wondering.”

“I love you.” Derek's voice was barely above a whisper. “I trust you.” 

Stiles broke out into a wide smile. The tops of his cheeks pressed up into his eyes, and the hand resting on Derek's forearm moved up to rest on his shoulder, then his neck, then the back of his head, guiding him forward into a kiss.

The kiss itself didn't last long, but the smile was wiped clear save for a twist of Stiles' mouth when he pulled back.

“I love you, too. Now... let's go do the thing with the blood and the convenient amnesia.”

It was a short walk to the clearing. Deaton and Morrell had smoothed out the forest floor, removing leaves and rocks until there was nothing but turned over dirt left for Lydia to draw her symbols on, runes of immense power that hummed with energy, words of power spoken the night before when the full moon was at its zenith.  


Magic made Derek uneasy, his proverbial hackles were raised the moment he crossed over the threshold of a circle he didn't see.  


“There they are,” Deaton said with a smile, turning toward his colleague. “I told you they would work it out.”  


“Hmm,” she held her chin between her fingers. “Sooner than anticipated. I suppose this spell works out for all of us.”  


Derek huffed, narrowing his eyes at Morrell. “Let's just get this over with. Before we realize having an amateur cast a spell of this magnitude is a stupid idea.”  


“I'm not an amateur at _anything_ , Derek,” Lydia said without even looking up from her spellbook. “Alphas who don't know how to run a pack shouldn't throw stones in their dilapidated houses.” 

“Lydia.” Stiles sounded more than a little exasperated. “Ix-nay on the itchiness-bay. He wasn't _serious_.” He looked at Derek, lifting himself up to full height. When he spoke to him, he tilted his chin down, eyebrows raised. “You weren't serious.”

The elder Stiles shifted on his feet, carefully positioned at the very center of the circle, fingers laced together in front of himself. “Yeah, whatever. Now that that's cleared up... can we get on with this?”

Lydia began pinning her hair up. “Derek – you and Stiles need to stand in front of him, at five and eight.” She nodded toward the two advisers. “And you two are at two and ten.”  


Morrell moved to get into position immediately, but Deaton held her back, gentle hands around her forearm. Lydia was too busy removing most of her layers and putting on a pair of latex gloves to notice.  


Derek stared into the eyes of the man the teenager beside him might very well become. He didn't relish the idea of Stiles being hurt, physically or emotionally, but he saw it differently now. Three nights had been spent holding the older Stiles close, clinging to him and letting him cling. There had been no more kisses, but they bumped foreheads, and once Derek nuzzled his neck, something that made Stiles push him away and leave for the rest of the night.  


It had been confusing and enlightening all at once.  


He learned that he was in love with _his_ Stiles, not this man that he might become, not yet. They needed to grow and experience together. And he had no right to rob the three of them of that because of insecurities, because of a woman who'd been dead for months but was still clawing at his heart no matter how hard he tried to protect himself.  


But Derek wasn't heartless, and in truth, he did _love_ the older man, even if he wasn't in love with him. He was his pack. He was family. And you took care of your family.  


So Derek hugged him, taking a few careful steps around the runes at their feet to be able to press close and wrap his long arms around his back, squeezing tight. 

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek immediately, his eyes closed even before the embrace began.

To him, this was his last moment. There was a weight pressing down on him that took three days to comprehend. He was grateful for every night they spent together. But in a way, they only made a predetermined decision difficult to follow through. Stiles wanted nothing more than to return home to his pack, but it would also mean returning home to a world without Derek in it.

Without the clean smell of his skin, without the warm brush of his facial hair, without his always steady breathing. He wouldn't have any of it the moment the spell was complete; he knew Derek would never bend to the Nagual. Their attempts would be fruitless.

Maybe they would be defeated. Maybe the war would end and he would die. But maybe they would win. A sure answer wasn't of any use of him there, wrapped up in a tight hug that continued long after it should have ended.

“Thank you,” Stiles murmured, the fingers of one hand curling in Derek's jacket. The mere thought of letting go caused everything to ache. “For... arranging this and for talking to me about everything and just – for letting me have this for just a little bit longer.”

“Least I could do for a man who put up with me for fifteen years.” There was no levity in Derek's voice; he didn't mean there to be. It was the truth, through and through. “You'll always have it.”  


When Derek pulled back, he didn't go far, keeping them close, allowing Stiles to be the one who chose when the embrace would end. “I took your advice,” he said, managing a small smile. “Nothing will change for you. I'm sorry for that, but I-- I'm not taking away what you had, either. I won't.” 

Stiles swallowed hard and nodded, releasing Derek from his grip only to reach up to cup the side of his neck with his hand.

“It's not just me,” he said, voice quiet but not soft. Rough. Frayed around the edges like the man himself. Tilting his head to the side, his thumb rubbed over the curve of Derek's throat. “You're getting something out of it, too. At least, I like to think so. But... still. Thank you. For making sure we still got a chance.”

“I'm getting everything,” he whispered, nuzzling their foreheads together. “I know I won't remember this. But you will. So thank you. For all the years you put in, for everything you gave up. For everything you helped us gain. I hope I--”  


Derek's throat closed on itself. He thought of Stiles, but not of the man he held. It was the boy behind him, with an erratic heartbeat, taking more and more steps back to give his older self and Derek privacy.  


When he opened his eyes, it was there. The words he couldn't speak, the gentle, pleading, _I hope I gave you even half of what you gave me_ stuck in the back of his throat. 

Stiles understood.

He leaned closer, pressing a kiss to Derek's cheek, before finally letting go, his hands hesitating for only a moment before they fell to his sides.

Instead of turning around to look at Stiles, his eyes went from Morrell to Deaton to Lydia in turn, finally nodding at the girl standing directly in front of him if some distance away. “Let's get this over with,” he said, though he reached forward again to curl his hand around Derek's wrist. He gave it a squeeze, his dark eyes flicking to Derek's before letting go again. “I've got people waiting on me back home.”

They went to their positions.  


Deaton and Morrell pressed the older Stiles to his knees, keeping their hands on him as Lydia began to chant. This spell was simpler. He recognized some words; it didn't feel as foreign. Or as violent. Even when she pulled out the knife.  


Ancient words continued to tumble from her glossed lips as she stepped past the man on his knees to get to Derek. Lydia held his hand, palm up, and slid the sharp blade over his skin. He didn't need to be told to control his healing.  


After doing the same to the teenaged Stiles, she placed both their hands on the elder's forehead. Derek stroked his finger over the man's temple.  


Their gazes stayed locked as Lydia finally cut her own palm, pressing it to the crown of his head, nails digging into his scalp.  


She shouted out the last few syllables of her chant, drawing the blade across his hairline.  


When her blood finally slid down to mingle with the three males', there was a flash, a shake of the earth, a tug on the center of their chests.  


And then there was darkness. 

For a long time, there was darkness.

Even when Stiles felt the sudden, obvious pull of reality on his limbs, everything was dark, but not unpleasantly so. Warmth pressed in on his face, so close he could hear his own breathing, and when he inhaled, he smelled fabric softener.

Pulling himself up onto his arms, he blinked into the sunlight filtering in through the windows. It was his bedroom, he knew that from the moment he opened his eyes. There was a phantom ache high on his forehead, but one that melted away in no time with a simple rub of the back of his hand. 

He flattened himself back out on the bed, one arm hooking the pillow on the opposite side to pull it against himself. He could wait to find Scott later. Questions could wait. An update could wait.

When he inhaled again, another scent filled his nose.

This one wasn't fabric softener. This one wasn't the sharp rust of blood or the sweetness of wolfsbane. This one wasn't fur or freshly washed hair. This one was impossibly simple and impossibly familiar, as if he had breathed it in only moments before.

His heart nearly stopped when he realized he had.

Nose pressed against a rough cheek, he had breathed him in.

The smell belonged to Derek.


	8. Chapter 8

A breath stuttered in Stiles' lungs as he sat up in bed.

The door leading into the en suite bathroom was closed, and with his mind a good deal clearer, he could hear water running. His hand clenched in the fitted sheet, tugging and straining at it before letting go to clamp the same hand over his mouth.

Shifting around on the mattress, his eyes never left the door, never left the sliver of light shining from beneath it, and his head never stopped whirling around and around.

The implications were difficult to swallow; Stiles was having trouble getting anything past the lump in his throat. This meant that Derek surrendered to the Nagual. This meant things were different. This meant any number of things, few of them pleasant. But at the same time, this meant that his and Derek's relationship had continued on the same path. This meant the pack was theirs. This meant they were still in love.

Eyes burning, Stiles pulled his legs up closer to his body, bent beneath the folds of the sheets. His pajamas smelled like Derek. The sheets smelled like him. The room smelled like him. Every inch of fabric, every mote of dust, everything was still shared between the two of them.

The fingers held over his mouth trembled.

The running water stopped.

Stiles' eyes fell closed, the burning behind his eyes forcing him to shed a tear that brought his lashes together into a clump. He rubbed at his face with his sleeve and struggled to take an even breath. He failed, but gulped the air down regardless.

It wasn't even a minute later that the door opened.  


His thick black hair was greying at the temples, a patch of silver decorating his freshly trimmed beard. Derek seemed bigger than Stiles remembered, taller and stronger and more powerful. He wasn't sure if it was a change in the timeline or if his memory was just failing him.  


“Didn't expect you to be up so early,” Derek murmured with a grin that quickly faded once he sensed his mate's distress.  


He was crossing the room and sliding into bed within seconds, wrapping his arm around Stiles shoulder. “Stiles? What is it?” Derek's voice was soft, rough with concern as he rested his other hand on Stiles' cheek, moving his head so that they were looking at each other, thumb brushing under his eye. “You haven't had a nightmare in a few years.” 

Stiles' face crumpled. His head shook.

“It's wasn't—” He struggled to take another breath, fighting even harder against the urge to bury his face into Derek's skin so he might keep looking him in the eyes. Sucking up another sharp breath through his nose, the sound was reduced to a sniffle. “It wasn't a nightmare.” 

His voice wasn't loud. What it was was sharp and broken until his lips pressed roughly against Derek's mouth. Then it was silent until he was forced away by words bubbling out of his throat, things he needed to say while he could still speak at all. They came then, with eyes wide and glassy. “I missed you,” he whispered. “Every – everyday. I missed you every day.”

Derek's eyebrows twitched together, confused, though his hazel eyes softened and dampened as well. “I know,” he murmured. “This is never going to be easy. But they'll trust us enough to let us live together permanently again.” He ran his rough palm over the fuzz of Stiles' hair, drawing him in for a kiss to his forehead. “I hate being away from you.” 

“Away from me.”

The words were nothing more than an exhale of the air caught in his chest. Guiding away to look back up at Derek, Stiles stared at him with a question in his own, much darker eyes. “Away from me? We're not living together anymore?”

“No. We haven't been for two years.” Derek's spoke slowly and patiently. “What's going on? I've never seen you act like this before.” He lowered his voice further, leaning in. “Is there something you don't want them to hear? Talk to me.” 

“They can _hear_ us?” 

Stiles sighed and shut his eyes at the sound of his voice squeaking out of him. When he opened them again, he curled his hands around Derek's upper arms. “I... I just _got_ here, Derek. I need you to fill me in.”

While Derek was confused, he was too connected to Stiles not to believe him. He could sense his mate's panic and sought to alleviate it. There was no place for distrust between them. Not anymore. Any answers to what was going on with the man in his arms could wait.  


“The house is bugged, but if we speak quietly they aren't able to pick up our voices enough to record,” he explained. “Part of the terms of the submission, as well as you and half the pack going to Mexico City. You're allowed to visit once every three months. Two to three weeks depending on if you mouthed off, usually.” 

With Derek's truths came Stiles'. He sat up farther, hands gripping Derek even tighter as he dipping his head to look at him. “This? This... wow, I don't know how to explain. They have witches. They sent me back into the past to – to convince you to submit. And to... punish me. You – Derek, you were dead; they killed you.” Saying the words felt wrong. He was so close, so warm, and so real. But Stiles could remember finding him hanging from a tree on the preserve like he'd seen it hours, not years ago. “I had – I had to do it. I had to get you back. I'm sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?”  


As easily as breathing, Derek kissed him, lazy and gentle with all the ease that came from knowing someone thoroughly for half a lifetime. “I would do anything to keep you alive,” he said against Stiles' lips. “I would kill anyone, I would die, I would swallow my pride and give up my power. And the latter was what I chose. For you. For our _family_.”  


“I hate them,” he continued, rubbing his hands over Stiles' waist. “But we won't be under their thumb forever. Of course, learning they're this depraved means the coup's going to be a lot bloodier.” 

Stiles' tensed at that. His throat closed again, and the all-too-familiar sensation drove him to shut his eyes.

“No,” he said, voice little more than a whimper slipped through gritted teeth. “No. Derek, no, I can't – I can't lose you again. I _can't_. If I have to see what I saw again, it'll _break_ me.” His hand went to Derek's face, thumb brushing beneath the curve of his cheekbone. Pulling his bottom lip into his mouth, he steadied himself again. “It's a miracle I'm still here.”

“I've never known a stronger man,” Derek murmured, tilting his head into Stiles' hand. “It's no miracle. It's you.” He smiled, cheek pressing against his rough palm. “Not that I'm calling _you_ a miracle, I know you way too well to go that far.”  


He frowned a moment later. “Sorry. Inappropriately timed jokes are a bad habit I picked up from _some_ one.” 

“Not a bad habit.”

Stiles smiled just enough for laugh lines to deepen around his eyes. “I missed you. I missed... everything about you. And this. And our pack and... and I couldn't let it go. It's good to know you couldn't let me go, either.”

Derek guided him onto his back, moving on top of him, pressing his lips to Stiles' cheek as they settled.  


“You must have gone through hell if that was even in question.” He nuzzled their noses together. “We'll stay here today. You can tell me what happened. Or not. Either way, you're definitely not going to be moving for awhile.” 

Stiles nodded. Maybe he would tell him about everything later. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he would explain the two empty years of his life, or maybe he would skip right to finding himself seventeen years in the past. The specifics didn't matter just then, not with Derek's arms curled protectively tight around him for the first time in what felt like forever. 

Was it two years? Was it ten minutes? Stiles shut his eyes against his questions, his worries. They didn't have any place there in their bed with everything quiet and warm for the moment.

He didn't sleep, but that didn't stop him from resting.


End file.
